Foundling Child
by Renarde Rouge
Summary: Quasimodo went to Montfaucon to die. He didn't count on being saved by a simple peasant girl. And he certainly never expected to find a reason to live. Novel-based with a dash of Disney.
1. Le Fantôme du Montfaucon

**Okay, so this is the first time I've ever officially taken a shot at this sort of thing. I've toyed with the idea, but never had the guts to actually put it into execution. So here goes nothing!**

**What follows is what I suppose you would call a continuation. It picks up where the book leaves off. (Well, sort of.) I love Victor Hugo, but the way he ended it made me throw the book across the room. So I'm giving Quasimodo the ending he deserves. This may delight some of you. It is also an unholy union of Canon and Disney if ever there was one. This may likely enrage most of you. We'll just have to see, won't we?**

**Don't own the novel or movie on which this story is based.**

* * *

Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter One: Le Fantôme du Montfaucon*

It is almost impossible to repress the curiosity of a child. Children will be children, after all. Some parents learn this more quickly than others, and they are wise not to discourage the tendency too severely. It is the high-strung, overprotective mothers and fathers who are slower to learn this lesson, at much cost to their own sanity.

Gabriel Lefévre, for instance, knows very well where he is and where he is not allowed to play. He has been told countless dozens of times by his uncle and his elder sister. Under no circumstances is he to stray anywhere _near_ le Gibet de Montfaucon.

But when you are eleven years old, the pull of the macabre is nearly irresistible. You know. You were eleven once, too.

To be fair, Gabriel almost always does what he is told. Every morning, without fail, he feeds the chickens, collects the eggs, and lets the sheep out to graze. And he does it without complaining; in point of fact, he takes special pride in his chores, because he knows he is doing his part to keep the farm operating smoothly.

Doing what you are told, however, is one thing. Refraining from doing what you are told _not_ to do is quite another. Particularly when your friends are teasing you for it.

"He won't do it!"

"He's not allowed!"

"No, he's just too scared!"

"You shut up, Henri!" Gabriel says angrily, giving the younger boy the most venomous glare he can muster. "I am _not_ scared. I just don't want to get in trouble, that's all."

Henri just scoffs and rolls his eyes, a habit he learned from his elder brother Laurent. "Yeah, right. Then why is your voice shaking?"

"Hey, come on, leave Gabriel alone," says Laurent in a deceptively sympathetic tone. He's always been the sneaky one. "If he says he's not afraid of Montfaucon, then I believe him." He smirks. "What he's really afraid of is his sister."

Henri and the other boy, a pasty blond scarecrow named Christophe, begin to snicker behind their hands. "What's she going to do if she finds out, Gabriel?" asks Christophe. "Sit on you?"

"Ooh, or better yet," Henri says between chuckles, "make him wear a dress!"

The boys howl with laughter, nearly falling over themselves in their merriment. At this time it should probably be mentioned that these boys are easily amused.

Gabriel feels his fingernails digging into his palms as he clenches his fists in indignation. He is not afraid of Montfaucon in the least, no matter what the crazy, superstitious townsfolk say about it. And he is _certainly_ not afraid of his sister, whom he could almost lift off the ground if he wanted to, despite being eight years older than him. The injustice of it all makes his ears burn.

Without a word, he marches off straight down the Rue de Saint-Martin, leaving the boys to gape at him in surprise before hurriedly running after him.

Between the suburbs of the Temple and Saint-Martin, as we well know, about a thousand feet from the wall that surrounds Paris, a few bowshots from the village of La Courtille, there stands an edifice of curious form. Even if Gabriel was not familiar with the layout of the town in which he grew up, it would be impossible for him to lose his way, for the structure stands on the top of an almost imperceptible rise, which makes it sufficiently elevated to be visible for several leagues around.

This is the infamous gibbet of Montfaucon.

It would be difficult to describe the place to someone who has never seen it. Imagine, if you can, a stout, heavy platform of stone, with an exterior ramp in the front and a door in the rear. Reaching high above this platform is a series of gigantic columns arranged in a colonnade and connected at the top by thick beams. Forty feet long, thirty feet wide, and forty-five feet tall, this intimidating mass of stonework was built for a specific purpose: to house the dead.

But although the lower part of this structure is indeed a vault, this is no simple mausoleum. Deceased criminals are put on display here. Chained to the support beams on all sides, corpses dangle in various states of decay, their bones rattling in the breeze. It goes without saying that crows are a common sight in the skies surrounding Montfaucon.

It is a disquieting place. The gibbet itself is over a hundred and fifty years old, and like the skeletons which hang from its beams, it has slowly but surely been rotting away. The pillars have grown green with mold, and grass sprouts up from the cracks in the platform. Understandably, it is regarded by the people as a blot on the otherwise picturesque landscape, and its appearance alone is enough to give it a reputation of being haunted.

No one would blame Gabriel for being hesitant about getting anywhere near this repulsive structure. But it has become a matter of personal pride now. The boy is no coward, and there is only one way to prove it.

The other children look on in mingled fascination and horror as their friend climbs the short rise toward the gibbet. At his approach, several crows take off, croaking harshly in annoyance. As he scales the slight incline, Gabriel keeps his eyes on the ground, watching his own measured steps. It's not until he reaches the top that he forces himself to look up.

It's close. Dear, sweet Lord, it's close. He's never been this close to Montfaucon in his life. If he wanted to, he could practically reach out and—

"Touch it!" Henri shouts up at him.

"I am _not_ going to touch it," Gabriel growls through clenched teeth.

"But I thought you weren't afraid!" Christophe protests in his whiny, insistent voice.

"_You_ come up here and touch it, if you're so tough!" Gabriel yells down at them, trying his best not to think about the fact that he's standing less than five paces away from several rotting corpses. "Why am I always the first one to do everything?"

"Because the gullible one always goes first!" says Laurent with an impish little chuckle. "Go on, touch it!"

"You touch it!"

"You're already up there!"

"So, it's your turn to do something stupid!"

"That doesn't make any sense!"

Gabriel sighs in exasperation. "If I touch it, will you get off my back?"

"Yes!" says Laurent.

"We promise!" Henri adds.

Shoving his hands through his dark hair, Gabriel takes a deep breath and turns back toward the gibbet. _It's not haunted,_ he tells himself firmly. _All these people are long dead. No matter what everyone says, there's no such thing as ghosts._

Slowly, he moves forward, extending his hand toward the ancient stone structure.

_Only a few more inches..._

And that's when he hears the moan.

His head whips around to stare at the other boys, who are watching him with wide, frightened eyes. He stands there a moment, rooted to the grass, wondering if it was his imagination. And then he hears another moan, low and eerie. Coming from the vault beneath the platform.

_The hell with this,_ he thinks, and runs.

"Go, go, go!" he can hear himself shouting as he half-runs, half-stumbles down the slight hill. The other children scatter like cockroaches in panic, colliding into each other in their haste to get away.

Breathing hard, Gabriel runs as fast as he can, forgetting any pretense of bravery. He squeezes his eyes shut; he wills his feet to move faster. His one and only thought is escape.

Which is probably what causes him to run right into his sister, knocking both of them to the ground.

* * *

As Marie Lefévre waits for her head to stop spinning, she wonders, not for the first time, why she was cursed with a madman for a little brother. Her friend Joséphine has such nice brothers; they always bring her flowers when she visits. It's really not fair, no matter how you look at it.

Before she can sufficiently ponder this little problem, she feels herself being yanked unceremoniously to her feet. Pushing her unruly reddish-brown curtain of hair out of her face, she glares at her brother, who is — most annoyingly — nearly at eye level with her.

"What is wrong with you?" she demands, her fists planted on her hips. "Do you have brain fever or something? How many times has Uncle Arnaud told you — how many times have _I_ told you to stay away from Montfaucon? Your fascination with this place is ridiculous, not to mention _disgusting_—"

"Marie! Marie, there's something in there!" Gabriel exclaims in a high, panicked voice, tugging impatiently at her sleeve. "We heard it, we all heard it! Marie, we have to get out of here, right now!"

Marie arches an eyebrow at him. "Now I _know_ you've lost it," she states matter-of-factly.

The boy groans in terror. "I'm not kidding, Marie, we have to _go_."

She stares at her brother, mildly surprised at his behavior. He really does look serious. Seriously terrified.

She sighs. "Tell me what happened."

"Laurent and Henri Toulouse—"

"Of course," Marie mutters, rolling her eyes. "It's always those two."

"—Laurent and Henri and Christophe du Maurier were teasing me about not being allowed to go near Montfaucon—"

"You shouldn't care what they think, Gabriel," she says with a disapproving frown.

"Will you let me finish!" he almost yells in frustration. Marie crosses her arms irately over her chest, but doesn't speak again. "Anyway, they wouldn't stop teasing me, so I walked up to the gibbet. Just to shut them up, that's all. But they _wouldn't_ shut up. They dared me to touch it." He swallows hard. "And that's when I heard something."

Marie reaches out and puts her hand on his arm. "What did you hear?" she asks, looking into his frightened blue eyes.

"It was like... a groan," he whispers. "It sounded human, but only just barely. It came from... _under the gibbet._"

Marie feels her shoulders slump. "Oh, for God's sake," she says flatly.

He blinks. "What?"

"I thought you were serious! You little rat!"

"I _am_ being serious, Marie!" he protests. "We all heard it! Just ask the others!"

"Oh, sure," she says sardonically. "I suppose they'll all tell me the same thing: that they heard the ghost of Montfaucon!" She rubs her arms as if she's suddenly cold. "Ooh, it's all so chilling and dramatic!"

She yelps in surprise as she feels herself being pushed from behind. "You don't believe me," Gabriel says firmly, "then go up there and see for yourself. Otherwise, knock it off, because you don't know what you're talking about."

"Fine," she replies airily. "I'll go up there. Just to prove to you how silly and immature you're behaving."

"Yes, _Mother_."

It's been a while, Marie is forced to admit, since she's ever gotten this close to the gibbet of Montfaucon. She tells herself, as she stares up at its moldy columns with their hanging carcasses, that it's because it's not aesthetically pleasing.

Refusing to show any trace of fear, she calmly clasps her hands behind her back and waits. "Well," she says after a while. "I'm here, dear brother. And I don't hear any unearthly wailing."

She can't help but notice, with mild trepidation, that Gabriel has remained several paces behind her. "I don't get it," he says nervously. "I heard it. I know I did."

"Well, maybe we have to get the ghost's attention," Marie suggests brightly. She clears her throat very formally before calling out. "Hello! Monsieur Ghost! Are you at home?"

"_Are you crazy?_" her brother whispers desperately.

"Not at all," she says over her shoulder. "I'm trying to be neighborly, that's all. I doubt if anyone's ever actually tried being friendly to the—"

She's cut off by a sudden sound, so strange and sad that it freezes the blood in her veins.

It is a low, soft, heart-wrenching sob.

And it is, quite unmistakably, coming from the vault beneath the platform.

Marie stares at her brother, his terrified face a reflection of her own. And then, slowly, she turns back toward the gibbet. "Stay here," she says.

"What? _No!_" Galvanized into action, Gabriel dashes forward, pulling on his sister's dress as she approaches the ancient stone structure. "What are you doing? We have to get out of here! No, don't get _closer!_"

Twisting out of his grasp, Marie continues to move forward, pushing her own terror aside. "There may be someone still alive in there," she tells him, fervently wanting to believe what she's saying. "Sometimes when people are executed or tortured, they don't check to make sure they're dead before they get rid of them. Someone might need help."

"Then let's go get Uncle Arnaud!" Gabriel protests. "Let's tell him what we heard, and then come back! Don't go in there by yourself!"

"Hush."

Marie circles the gibbet until she reaches the rear of the structure. To her surprise, the door to the vault has been forced open, and fairly recently, from the looks of it. Taking a deep breath, she turns to her brother. "Wait outside."

Gabriel nods, appearing vaguely nauseous.

Very calmly and deliberately, as if she's watching herself from far away, she steps forward into the open doorway. Her slight form casts a shadow across the vault within, and she moves off to one side. "Hello?" she calls, her voice wavering slightly. "Is there someone in here? If you're hurt, please say something."

No answer.

She's begun trembling uncontrollably. _Oh, God, oh, God, what am I doing?_ She waits for herself to calm down, and after a few moments, her eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. The stone vault is littered with skeletons, the majority in advanced stages of decomposition; not a scrap of flesh still adheres to the bones.

But in the center of the vault, in the shaft of light streaming in from the open door, two figures lie side by side.

The first is a young girl, perhaps two or three years younger than Marie. She has long dark hair and an olive complexion, and is dressed in a thin white shift. She has clearly been dead for a few days.

The second is a large, oddly-shaped figure. It seems to be clasping the body of the girl in its arms.

Swallowing hard, Marie slowly enters the vault. As she bends over the pair of figures, she suddenly stumbles back in horror. The second, larger figure is a man, but unlike any man she has ever seen. His face is grotesquely deformed, and a great camel-like hump rises from his back. He looks like a giant that has been broken and badly repaired.

Shaking her head, she forces herself into action. She kneels beside the figure and puts a hand on its arm. To her surprise, it's still warm. Reaching out with unsteady fingers, she holds them close to the figure's lips.

_There._ A breath. It's faint, but it's there.

"Gabriel!" she shouts.

The boy appears instantly, blocking the light. "Are you all right?" he calls anxiously.

"I'm fine! Go get Uncle and bring him back here! Go, quickly!"

His silhouette vanishes from the doorway, and Marie turns back to the figure on the ground. She nearly gasps as the man's eyes suddenly flutter open. They swivel around for a moment in confusion before resting on her face. As he stares up at her silently, Marie feels something tighten in her chest. His eyes are a beautiful blue-green, and filled with pain and grief the likes of which she can't begin to comprehend.

Moved with pity, she lays a hand on his misshapen shoulder.

"Hold on," she whispers in the darkness. "It'll be all right."

His eyes drift shut again.

_You'll be all right._

* * *

**Arrrrghh, present tense be a harsh mistress. But I love it so. Let me know if you find any mistakes or inconsistencies in this area. But anyway, there you have it. More on the way. Reviews would be lovely.**

**Also, I borrowed a few phrases directly from the novel. See if you can spot them.**

**-R.R.**

*** "The Phantom of Montfaucon"**


	2. Ma Cloche Préféré

**Thank you for the reviews! I'm glad someone likes my crazy endeavor so far. So: I mentioned that this story would be a combination of Canon and Disney. However, it won't be as blasphemous an amalgam as it sounds like. It will definitely adhere to the plot of the novel. However, there are aspects of it which will be distinctly Disney. For one, Quasimodo is not deaf. At least, not in my story. In fact, he's based almost exclusively on his Disney counterpart. What can I say? I love him in the book, but in the movie, he's wonderful. Plus I've always been a fan of Tom Hulce. His voice is adorable, and totally perfect for the part.**

**Book not mine. Movie not mine. Let's move on.**

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Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter Two: Ma Cloche Préféré

The sun takes its time setting at this time of year over the farmlands surrounding Paris. At about a half past eight, the shadows stretch across the rolling hills, and the crickets begin their nightly serenade. A handful of tiny pinpoints of light begin to appear as the first of what will be countless fireflies begin their nocturnal meanderings in the fields. By morning, the countryside will be thrumming with activity as the farmers and their families get an early start on their numerous and seemingly endless list of chores. But for now, as evening falls, a tranquil hush comes over the Lefévre farm.

In her attic room at the top of the farmhouse, Marie sets aside her sewing on the nearby table and rises from her wooden chair, stretching her arms above her head to ease her aching back. Then she reaches over and picks up a candle holder from the little round table beside her. After casting a glance at her narrow bed in the corner, she tiptoes over to the open trap door in the floor of her room, careful not to wake the bed's occupant.

As she descends the rickety ladder, Marie just barely remembers to duck her head to avoid hitting it on the thick timbers. She lets her hand slide along the wood-and-plaster walls as she passes through the dark rooms beyond. Unlike that of most peasant families, the floor of the farmhouse is lined with smooth planks instead of dirt. In fact, Marie is almost always consciously aware that as far as living quarters are concerned, the Lefévres are considerably better off than most others in the area. Many of her acquaintances in the village live in one- or two-bedroom structures, often with twice or even three times the number of occupants as those living under her roof. Some, she knows, even share their houses with their livestock. She can tell from their undeniably ripe aroma.

But Marie's grandfather, now deceased, was a very successful dyed-wool merchant, and with his profits he built a respectable homestead for himself and his family. Boasting two storeys in addition to the little attic, wood floors, a proper chimney, and even real glass in its windows, it was undoubtedly one of the most impressive structures in the village when it was first erected, and remains so to this day. Most of the villagers, when paying a visit or merely in the vicinity, tend to regard it with ill-concealed envy.

Marie stifles a yawn as she stumbles down a narrow stairway and emerges into the warmly lit kitchen, where the rest of the household is sitting around the hearth in a companionable silence. Her uncle Arnaud, a tall, rangy man in his late thirties, is stooped over a pair of old shoes, attempting to mend a widening hole in one of them. Old Bernard Morel, the farmhand, who has been with the Lefévres since before Marie was born — a little weather-beaten man with skin like a dried chestnut — appears to be fast asleep in a corner, his bony heels propped against the hearthstone. Gabriel, whose eyelids are already flagging, seems to be ready to follow suit at any moment.

Arnaud looks up at her entrance, his keen gray eyes alert as always. "Any change?" he asks.

Marie shakes her head. "Not yet."

He nods minutely, examining her closely for a few seconds before returning to his work. "You look exhausted," he observes.

She heaves a sigh as she sets the candle holder on the kitchen table and pulls up a stool alongside Gabriel. He stirs briefly and mumbles something incoherently, but gives no other response. "I am, Uncle," she says, leaning forward and resting her arms on the table. "It's been a long day."

"You're telling me. I was awake before the rooster this morning, and you know what an insomniac he is. The little idiot."

Marie chuckles. Beside her, Gabriel gives a jaw-popping yawn and blinks up at her sleepily. "Is the monster awake yet?" he inquires.

"He is not a monster, Gabe," says Arnaud, in his quiet, unobtrusive, but nevertheless firm voice.

The boy is evidently not much fazed by the contradiction. "Well, whatever he is, is he awake yet?"

"No, Gabriel," Marie replies wearily.

He makes a small noise of displeasure. "Well, tell me when he is," he says, and promptly lowers his head to the table and closes his eyes.

His sister shakes her head, partly in exasperation and partly in amusement. "Well, I can't stay," she says, rising to her feet. "I just came down to light the candle. It's getting too dark up there to see my sewing."

As she reaches behind Bernard to grab the tongs, taking pains not to wake the old farmhand, she hears Arnaud set his shoes aside. "You know, Marie, you didn't have to put him up in your room."

"Oh, it's all right," she says, plucking a glowing ember from the hearth and lighting her candle with it. "My room is generally the warmest, and my bed is by far the most comfortable. Besides, I didn't want to kick Bernard out of his room; I mean, he's so old. Look at him." A snort proceeds from her uncle's general vicinity, which always means he's making a valiant effort not to laugh. "I'll be fine in Gabriel's room. As long as he doesn't snore."

"I don't snore," Gabriel mumbles, his voice muffled by the table.

"How would you know? You're not awake to hear yourself."

"Still, it's not really fair, is it?" continues Arnaud, in his thoughtful, contemplative manner. "Allowing the lady of the house to be unceremoniously evicted from her own room. If I were a gentleman, I'd feel almost guilty about the whole thing."

"Well then, I suppose it's a good thing you're not a gentleman, eh?" Arnaud smiles wryly at her. "I don't mind, Uncle. Really. I'm glad to do it." She shrugs her shoulders tiredly. "Far be it from me to turn down a chance to play the good Samaritan."

"That a girl. Your parents would be proud."

Marie turns to leave, candle in hand, and then pauses at the stairs, her foot on the first step. "Uncle," she begins uncertainly.

"Hmm?"

"Why..." She hesitates, unsure how she should put it. "I mean... what do you suppose makes a person... look like that?"

Her uncle sighs. "I don't know, Marie," he says quietly. "Some people seem to... grow in their mother's womb differently than most other people. But it's not their fault. Sometimes it's because of something their parents did. But that's the most I can say on the subject. I'm not an expert."

Almost before she is aware of it, she hears herself speaking in a low voice. "I never knew it was possible for anyone to look that way. At first I wasn't sure if he was even human. But then I saw his eyes. They were so... I don't know. Heartbreaking." She shakes her head, forcefully bringing herself out of her reverie. "Anyway, I suppose it's like you say. He can't help the way he looks, any more than I can help having hair like a spaniel, or you can help having a nose like a vulture."

"That was profound."

"Thank you."

"I hope you'll apprise me of any new developments."

"I will."

Marie makes her way back upstairs and wearily ascends the stepladder to her cozy attic room. As she sets the candle on the little table and resumes her seat at the window, her gaze drifts over to the man lying unconscious on her bed. He does not appear to have moved an inch since being deposited there that same afternoon.

He is not a pretty sight. Even the merry glow of the candle fails to cast a flattering light on his deformed features. His nose is large and lumpy, his left eye is partially obscured by a strange protuberance, and his awkward frame made it difficult to decide how to place him comfortably on the bed. Yet despite his apparent crippled state, he gives the impression of great physical strength; he seems to be made of pure muscle. Her uncle and Bernard had a devil of a time heaving him onto their enormous draft horse in order to get him back to the farm.

Perhaps it's best, Marie muses, that the man hasn't woken yet. As it turns out, the interlude has given her an opportunity to adjust to his appearance while he's asleep. If he had awoken earlier, he would have undoubtedly noticed her initial apprehension, and that, she suspects, is probably the last thing he needs.

Besides, he really isn't nearly as alarming as she found him at first sight. After all, he has the same characteristics as anyone else: two arms, two legs, ten fingers on each hand. He's simply different, and different, her uncle has taught her, does not necessarily mean bad. At any rate, his hair is quite a brilliant, striking shade of red — much redder than her own dull, permanently-disheveled russet locks. And his eyes. Oh, goodness, his eyes. They were such an unusually beautiful blue-green, almost luminescent in their jewellike radiance. And so haunted. She can't seem to get the memory of them out of her head.

Nevertheless, Marie is starting to worry. He's been unconscious for hours, and although there is no way of knowing how long he was in that dreadful vault beneath Montfaucon, he must be dehydrated and possibly malnourished. If he does not wake up soon, he could be in very real danger.

_Poor man,_ she thinks as she contemplates his disfigured face. She has so many burning questions running through her mind. What unimaginable hell has he been through in his life? Who was that unfortunate girl he was clutching to his chest? And why did he choose to die alongside her?

_Who are you?_ she silently asks him, willing him to open those riveting eyes again.

* * *

For a long while, there is only blackness, broken occasionally by indistinct, amorphous images half-formed out of memory. And then, gradually, a soft orange glow suffuses his eyelids. For a moment, even that is almost too bright to bear. But it is enough to remind him that he once had eyelids, and very possibly still does.

Very slowly, he opens his eyes.

Even at a glance, he quickly realizes that he hasn't the faintest idea where he is. He is aware that he is lying on a bed, but he can't tell what it is made of; only that it is far more comfortable than anything he has ever felt in his life. He almost considers going back to sleep, but curiosity gets the better of him, and he forces his eyes to stay open.

It is a strange, dimly-lit, charmingly cluttered little space — an attic, judging from the angle of the ceiling beams over his head. At his side, a candle burns cheerfully on a small round table. Beside it stands a clay pitcher and cup. A short chest of drawers is crammed into one corner under an eave of the house, and its surface is covered with various colorful ornaments and knick-knacks. On the window sill is a vase containing a bouquet of purple and yellow flowers. And directly to the right of the window, a girl is curled up in a chair.

At this he gives a sudden start. A lifetime of experience has taught him to be wary of other people. But as he continues to watch out of the corner of his eye, it becomes swiftly evident that the girl is asleep. Her hands, which were evidently occupied in sewing something, now lie limply in her lap, and her head is slumped forward, her long auburn hair covering her face.

He swallows. Now would definitely be a good time to leave.

He tries to heave himself from the bed, and discovers to his dismay that he is too weak to move. Even the effort of lifting his head from the pillow causes him to let out an involuntary groan.

Unfortunately, this does not go unnoticed. His stomach churns in apprehension as he watches the girl stir in her slumber, then slowly raise her head and push her hair out of her face.

_Damnation,_ he thinks miserably to himself. _She's pretty._

Her moss-green eyes blink sleepily for a moment before settling on him. "Oh, you're awake!" she says in surprise, shooting to her feet and causing her sewing to fall to the floor. "Thank God. I was getting worried."

As the girl picks up her needlework and sets it aside, he tries to turn his head away to escape her gaze, but even that proves to be too great a task. Suppressing a sigh, he lies there helplessly as she pulls her chair closer to his bedside and resumes her seat.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

What an odd question. No one has ever inquired after his health before. On the contrary, people most often express a desire that he go throw himself into a river.

He tries to speak, but his throat is parched, and only a dry wheeze escapes his lips. The girl quickly retrieves the pitcher from the table beside him and pours out a measure of water into the cup. He freezes instinctively as she comes toward him, but she merely passes an arm behind his massive shoulders and tries to raise him to a sitting position.

Without success, of course. Impelled to action, he summons what meager strength he has left and assists the girl in elevating him enough to allow her to hold the cup to his lips. While she helps him drink, he is irresistibly reminded of another time, almost an eternity ago, when a pretty girl offered him a drink of water. As she returns the cup to the table, a tear slides unbidden down his cheek, and he closes his eyes.

Suddenly they snap open again as he feels a small, warm hand gently wipe the tear away.

"There, now," the girl says softly. "Let's have none of that. You're safe here. You're in good hands."

As she eases him back down onto the pillow, he abruptly remembers something: her voice. He's heard it before. On the very brink of death, he heard a low, feminine voice. It told him to hold on, that it would be all right.

Moved with emotion, he manages to speak in a hoarse whisper. "Am I in Heaven?"

The girl laughs. "Not quite," she replies, amused. "You're on a farm on the edge of La Courtille, just outside the walls of Paris."

_Then I'm not dead,_ he thinks, feeling his eyes start to drift shut again. _That's a pity._

"That's it," the girl is saying, "rest now. You need to get your strength back."

Sleep is quickly, inexorably taking hold of him, but before it claims him completely, he wills himself to speak one more time. "What is your name, mademoiselle?"

He hears her reply faintly, as if from a great distance away: "Marie."

He feels himself smile as he drifts off. "My favorite bell."

* * *

**Short chapter, I know. The next will be longer. I cannot tell you how long it took me to retrieve the word "inexorably" from the murky depths of my brain. I couldn't remember it for the life of me. Too many words sloshing around in there, apparently. Anyway, what'd you think so far? Has my little story any hope of getting off the ground? I hope so. If not, I think I'm just going to keep writing it anyway. Ta!**

**-R.R.**


	3. À Bras Ouvert

**Okay, so as promised, this chapter will definitely be longer than the last. My sincere and heartfelt thanks goes out to those who took the time to review. I'm aware that this is a seldom-visited corner of FFNet, so reviews are understandably few and far between. That makes those who _do_ review that much more special and awesome. And now, chapter three!**

**Oh, also, I do not claim ownership of the novel or movie upon which this story is based.**

* * *

Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter Three: À Bras Ouvert*

Just as dawn breaks over the horizon and casts a rich rosy light over the French countryside, a handsome rooster with a scarlet comb, a large black crest, and a pair of powerful lungs assumes his perch on the roof of the henhouse, puffs out his chest ceremoniously, and begins his morning ritual of rudely awakening every living creature in the area. Luckily — or unluckily, depending on how one looks at it — there is one living creature on the Lefévre farm who has already been awake for some time.

"You snored."

"I do not snore!"

"I have it from a very trustworthy authority, namely me, that you _do_ snore, Gabriel."

With a noisy exhalation, the young boy rolls his shoulders in irritation. "Whatever," he mutters sullenly. "It's not my fault you couldn't sleep. You didn't have to give your room to the monst— I mean, the uhh, the man we found yesterday," he corrects himself quickly, wincing beneath his sister's disapproving glare.

"No," Marie agrees reluctantly, rubbing her tired eyes with the heels of her palms. "I guess you're right. But we've got to think of some alternative arrangement before tonight. Something tells me he's not going to make a miraculous recovery."

As Marie folds up the thin blanket she used as a mattress the night before, Gabriel takes the opportunity, after making certain that his sister's back is turned, to pull off his long nightshirt and don a clean pair of hose. "Marie," he says, tugging a tunic over his head, "who do you suppose he is, anyway?"

The girl gives a shrug, an impassive expression on her freckled face. "I have no idea."

This is not quite true.

In actual fact, when Gabriel was happily asleep and making noises reminiscent of a wild pig, Marie had ample time to think about the identity of the man lying asleep upstairs in her own bed. His voice, despite its hoarseness, sounded like that of a young man, and his huge, ungainly frame along with his initially confusing reference to a bell suddenly coalesced into an idea as she stared blearily up at the ceiling. It was only an inkling, but now, as her mind returns to it, she has little doubt that she must be right.

Still, she feels reluctant to divulge her suspicions to anyone at this early stage, particularly her brother: he has an unfortunate tendency to share information with anyone and everyone who will listen.

She tosses the blanket on the foot of Gabriel's bed. "I'm sure we'll find out in good time," she says easily. "Now why don't you get washed up, and then bring in the eggs?"

The boy gives a jaunty salute before dashing out of the room and careening noisily down the stairs. _If anyone else was still asleep,_ Marie thinks, _they aren't anymore._

After dressing in the clothes she retrieved from her chest of drawers the previous night, she pads softly out of her brother's room. As she passes beneath the trapdoor of her own attic bedroom, she briefly contemplates going up to check on their houseguest. But no: if Gabriel did wake him up, he's probably starving by now. No sense wasting time in idle chitchat when she could be making breakfast.

Instead, Marie tiptoes down the stairs and out the door, blinking in the sunlight. She crosses the barnyard to the well, where she draws up a bucket of water and quickly washes her hands, face, neck, and hair with the nearby ewer and basin. After finishing her morning ablutions and wringing out her wet hair, she refills the ewer and returns inside to find the kitchen no longer empty. Kneeling beside the hearth, Bernard is busy starting a fire, sparks flying from his gnarled hands as he strikes a flint against his knife.

He looks up at her entrance and smiles, a myriad of creases forming in his weather-beaten face. "Good morning, Marie," he says amiably.

"Good morning, Bernard," Marie answers in mild surprise, setting the ewer on the table. "You don't have to bother with that. I was just going to build the fire. Why don't you go sit down?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Just giving you a head start on breakfast, that's all." The tinder lights with a sudden flare, and he begins to arrange small bits of wood around it in a tidy pile. "How's your patient this morning?"

Marie casts him a strange look over her shoulder. "I... haven't checked on him yet," she says as she grabs the large iron pot from over the hearth and empties the ewer into it. "And he's not exactly my patient. I just... found him, that's all."

"Yes, you did," Bernard replies thoughtfully, adding more wood to the fire. "If you hadn't worked up the nerve to go into that vault, maybe nobody would have found him. He might be dead if it weren't for you. Who knows?" He stands up and casually dusts off his knees. "Right, well, it's all ready for you. I'm going to go clean myself up and then let the sheep out. Holler when it's ready, will you, cricket?"

"Sure," she says distractedly as she watches him leave, continuing to stare at the door after he's gone. Then, shaking her head forcefully, she returns the pot to the hearth and pulls out a jar of hulled oats and another of honey. But as she waits for the water to boil, Marie's thoughts begin to wander again.

Bernard never talks merely for the sake of talking. And he never just _says_ anything. If he decides to tell Marie something, it is because she needs to hear it.

_He might be dead if it weren't for you._

Marie leans back against the table with a sigh. Bernard is right, as usual. Despite his age, his mind is as keen as a razor, and it doesn't seem to show any signs of dulling. Marie has no idea what possessed her to enter that vault beneath Montfaucon, but enter she did. And she found more than she bargained for: she found a lost soul. She found him, and she saved him. That makes him her responsibility.

That _does_ put a different angle on things.

* * *

While the rest of the household sits around the kitchen table, Marie pulls down the trap door to her room and ascends the ladder gingerly, carrying a bowl of hot porridge in one hand while steadying herself on the wall with the other. The air in the attic is stuffy, and she crosses the room and opens the window to let fresh air in. Then she turns, and finds the bed's occupant watching her with his big, soulful eyes.

She quickly squelches her involuntary dismay at his unfortunate appearance and musters a friendly smile — or at least, what she hopes is a friendly smile. "Good morning, monsieur," she says cheerfully. He quickly looks away, and she feels a brief stab of pity. "I'll bet you're famished," she continues, pulling a wooden spoon from the waistband of her apron. "I made some porridge. It's pretty bland, but it'll go down easier this way, trust me."

Marie thinks she sees him cringe slightly at her approach, but she can't be sure. She pauses. "Can you sit up?" she asks mildly.

The man hesitates, and then, slowly and with considerable effort, uses his sizeable forearms to push himself up to a sitting position. Upright, he makes an even more imposing figure, a solid mass of bulging muscles and strange angles. And yet, as Marie seats herself beside the bed, she finds she's not the least bit intimidated. The only feelings he evokes in her are curiosity and concern.

She passes the bowl to him, and she notices that his hands are trembling, though whether from exhaustion, fear, or for some other reason, she can't tell. "Here, let me help," she offers, gently taking the bowl and bringing a spoonful of porridge to his lips.

As she helps him eat, aware that he is studiously avoiding her gaze, Marie silently reviews her last exchange with him on the previous night. She is almost certain she knows who he is. Of course, just about everyone in and around Paris knows _of_ him at the very least. She herself has heard stories about him for as long as she can remember. But she was never sure how much of the gossip she actually believed.

And she certainly never expected he would be lying in her bed.

After he has eaten as much as his shrunken stomach will allow, Marie sets the bowl aside. She clears her throat, louder than she expected after the long silence. "Are you feeling any better, monsieur?" she asks.

There is a brief pause. "Y-yes, thank you," comes the soft reply.

She privately remarks to herself, as she did the first time she heard him speak, that he has a most unexpectedly sweet voice. "Glad to hear it," she says with a smile. "We were all pretty worried about you."

At this he looks up into her face, and again she is struck by the brilliant color of his eyes. But he holds her gaze only for an instant, to her disappointment. "H-how many... people are living here?" he asks nervously, looking down at his enormous hands.

"Just three, besides me. My uncle Arnaud, my little brother Gabriel, and old Bernard Morel, our farmhand who has been here since time immemorial. In addition to two dozen chickens, about a billion sheep, a cart horse, and a very ill-tempered cat. I'd advise you not to pet her. She hates the entire world."

She realizes that she's been rambling, but the man appears not to mind. He continues to regard his hands in silent contemplation. "And... y-your name is Marie?" he asks at last.

She smiles again. "Yes, that's right, monsieur. Marie Lefévre." She hesitates a moment. "And your name is...?"

The man looks up at her again, and this time he doesn't look away. His eyes have that same haunted quality she observed when she first found him in the crypt. _It's all right,_ she wants to tell him. _I know who you are. You have nothing to fear from me._ But she can't seem to get the words out.

They both jump at a sudden knocking on the wooden floor. "Hello!" a voice calls out from below. "Permission to come up?"

Marie turns to the man, who appears to be trying his best to disappear into the mattress. "Don't worry," she hastens to assure him. "It's just my uncle. He helped carry you up here yesterday. He probably just wants to see if you're feeling better. Is that all right with you?"

After what feels like an eternity, the man concedes with a small nod.

"Okay, Uncle, you can come up!"

A dark head emerges through the open trap door, and is swiftly followed by the rest of her uncle's long, lanky figure. As he enters the small attic, he has to stoop slightly to avoid bumping his head on the low, slanted ceiling. He's dressed in his usual muted gray tunic and black hose — the standard attire of a simple, unassuming laborer. No one would ever guess that he was once a scholar.

Marie stands up and offers him her chair, but he waves her back down. "Relax, kid, I didn't come to boot you out," he tells her. "Anyway, I can't stay long. I just wanted to make sure you're taking good care of our guest."

"Well, Uncle," she replies with a glance at the bedridden man, "why don't you ask him?"

"An excellent idea." As Arnaud steps forward, the man swallows visibly, as if in anticipation of some imminent danger. But her uncle merely stops at the side of the bed, across from where Marie is sitting, and offers a pleasant smile. "How about it, son? Is my niece treating you all right?"

The man's wide-eyed stare darts from Arnaud to Marie and back again, almost as though he were baffled by the simple question. And then, slowly, he nods his head. "Y-yes, monsieur," he says in his soft voice. "Your niece is... very kind."

Marie doesn't know why, but she feels her chest constrict at this. She doesn't know why it should matter what this strange, misshapen man thinks of her, but she finds that it does matter. It matters a great deal.

_But why?_

"Well, she'd better be," Arnaud says, with a mock frown in her direction. "I helped raise her, after all. She gets all of her best traits from me. And you can stop rolling your eyes, young lady."

Marie sighs, trying unsuccessfully to smother a smile. The truth is, he's right: she did get her best traits from him.

Abruptly her uncle smacks his forehead with the heel of his palm. "I'm one to talk! Where are my manners?" He holds out his long bony hand. "My name is Arnaud Lefévre, owner and proprietor of this fine establishment. And you are?"

The man regards his hand warily for a moment, before reaching out and taking it hesitantly, engulfing Arnaud's thin fingers with his massive hand. "Quasimodo," he says in a near-whisper.

_I knew it,_ Marie thinks to herself, but says nothing. Her uncle's keen gray eyes pin hers with a quick glance across the bed, and she realizes that he must have had his own theories as to the man's identity, and come to exactly the same conclusion she had. As it happens, they were both right.

But Arnaud only nods in a sort of placid, vaguely recollective way. "Ah, yes. Of course. Then am I correct in presuming that you must be the bellringer of Notre-Dame?"

"No," the man says at once, and Marie is startled by the sudden strength and vehemence in his voice. But as she looks on, his huge shoulders sag, and he seems to withdraw even further into himself. "That is... n-not... not anymore," he ends quietly.

Arnaud blinks at him, nonplussed, and it's clear to Marie that he doesn't quite know what to say to this. However, he soon recovers his equanimity. "Well, naturally not," he replies in his easy manner. "Not at the moment, at any rate. You're far too weak. But just as soon as you've gotten your strength back—"

Abruptly he falls silent, and Marie looks at him curiously. But his eyes are on Quasimodo, who is shaking his head violently. "I'm not going back," he says in a low, wavering voice. "Not ever."

Marie watches the man. He's taking deep, shuddering breaths, as if he were trying desperately not to cry. To her own surprise, she feels an odd and completely inexplicable rush of protectiveness toward him.

"It's all right, monsieur," she tells him soothingly. "You don't have to go back. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

Quasimodo heaves a sigh, an immeasurably sad sound. His eyes seem somewhere a thousand miles off; somewhere cold and desolate and devoid of all hope. "What if... What if I don't want to live?" he whispers.

Marie finds herself blinking rapidly to clear her vision. Arnaud bends down and rests a hand on the man's shoulder, compelling him to look up at him. "We don't talk like that in this house, my lad," he says, gently but firmly.

After instructing Marie to look after him, Arnaud leaves the little attic, his footsteps retreating down the creaky ladder.

Quasimodo leans forward and covers his face with his hands.

At an utter loss, Marie sits in her chair, feeling helpless and strangely like an unwanted presence. But she can't leave him alone. He's been alone his entire life; ostracized from the day he was born, if the stories about him are true. Orphan, outcast, abomination — these are the words associated with the infamous hunchback of Notre-Dame. But what has he done to deserve his reputation of a monster, a demon? Nothing. He was simply born different. His culpability is in his mere existence.

_But he's just a boy,_ Marie thinks. From what she has heard, he has been living in the belltower of Paris' grandest cathedral for only twenty years. Despite his fearful appearance, he is no older than she is. When she discovered him in the vault below Montfaucon, she didn't find a lost soul. She found a lost child.

_Montfaucon._ She almost forgot.

Rising from her chair, she hurries over to the stout wooden chest in the corner of her room and retrieves a small green object from one of its drawers. She pulls her chair closer to the bed and resumes her seat. Taking a deep breath, she reaches out and touches Quasimodo's arm. "Monsieur?" she inquires solicitously.

Reluctantly, he removes his hands from his face, and his eyes meet hers. As he holds her gaze longer than he has previously done, Marie finds herself entranced by the luminous quality of his viridescent eyes. At last he sighs, shaking his head as if ashamed. "I-I'm sorry, I... I must seem so ungrateful to you," he stammers miserably.

Without a word, Marie takes his large hand and places the object in his palm. As he stares down at it, she hears a sharp intake of breath. The object itself is nothing much: a small bag of green silk, like an amulet or good luck charm, attached to a string of tiny beads. In the center of the bag, surrounded by a flourish of delicate embroidery, is a large glass bead fashioned to resemble a cut emerald. With a start, Marie realizes that the bead is the exact color of Quasimodo's eyes.

"Wh-where...?" He swallows thickly, staring down at the little ornament. "Where did you get this?"

"It was around the neck of the girl who..." She stops. She can't bring herself to finish.

Silently, Quasimodo brings the amulet to his lips and holds it there, his eyes tightly shut. _Stop it,_ Marie thinks, wildly and irrationally, biting down hard on her own lip to keep from crying. _Stop it right now. You're going to break my heart._

After a long moment, he composes himself, clearing his throat. "I'm... I'm sorry," he says again.

"No, don't be," Marie answers forcefully. "You don't need to apologize. It's you who deserves an apology, for what's been done to you." She leans forward in her intensity of feeling. "I don't know what you've been through — I'm sure only God Himself must know that — but I swear to you, monsieur, on my parents' graves, all that's behind you now. No one will hurt you. Not anymore."

She covers his huge, shapeless hand with her own small one. "Don't despair," she says softly.

Quasimodo stares down at her hand in something close to amazement. Then he swallows hard. "If you say so."

* * *

Over the following days, Marie keeps a diligent post at Quasimodo's bedside, leaving only to bring him food and water and a basin with which to wash himself while her back is discreetly turned toward him. As far as shaving goes, she sees to that herself, as if afraid he might do something rash and self-destructive if left to his own devices. It takes a great deal of trust and self-control to allow the girl near his face with a razor, but he finds her to be painstakingly careful, even gentle. She even brings her bedroll up from her brother's room and insists on sleeping on the floor, in case he should need anything during the night. Of all the wonderfully preposterous ideas.

The rest of her time is spent occupied in needlepoint, in mending hose and stockings, and in chatting idly of this and that. She tells him about her family, and how she lost her parents. Her mother died when she was only eight, while giving birth to her brother Gabriel, and her father died a year later during an outbreak of infectious fever. Her uncle, who was her father's brother, came to take care of the children while their father was in hospital, and after he died, Arnaud stayed and took over the farm. Arnaud, she explains, was a promising scholar at the Abbey of Sainte-Geneviève in Paris, before family duty called him back home to La Courtille. He returned with a knowledge of history, theology, Latin, Greek, arithmetic, geometry, and music, none of which prepared him in the least for the hard work involved in maintaining a farm. But instead of bridling at his new and less prestigious calling, he contented himself with learning the trade from old Bernard, and took pleasure in imparting his worldly wisdom to his newly-adopted children. So although Marie never attended any colleges and indeed would never have been allowed to do so, she and her brother had been taught to read and write, free of charge, by their learned uncle.

During all the time she speaks to him, she never puts a single question to Quasimodo, for which he is grateful. He can tell from the way she glances curiously at him from time to time that she desperately wants to know more about him, but her sense of decorum and her respect for his privacy seems to forbid her from asking. He doubts he could bear to answer her, even if she did.

Quasimodo doesn't know what to make of her constant presence. No one, not even his master, could withstand his company for extended periods of time, due to his understandably offensive appearance. But this girl is stubbornly determined to stay by his side. At first all he can feel toward her is bitterness and resentment. He can't help it. He was determined to die and end his life-long suffering. Who was she to take that away from him?

But as the days pass, and she categorically refuses to leave him alone, he feels his antipathy beginning to melt away, replaced by curiosity and — dare he admit it? — gratitude. She is a puzzle, this Marie Lefévre. Although not an exotic beauty, like another girl he once knew(and God help him, he can't forget), she is pretty enough to make him terribly nervous. With her thick, unruly mane of reddish-brown hair and her moss-green eyes and her light dusting of freckles, she unknowingly shames him into avoiding her gaze. But her manner is so amiable, her smile so disarming, that he finds himself becoming more at ease in her company. He even asks her to stop calling him "monsieur".

The most perplexing part of it all is that she is not afraid of him. He can't help but wonder if she's mad.

After a while, he decides he doesn't care if she is.

By the fifth day, Quasimodo is feeling much stronger. After Marie brings him his morning bowl of porridge, she surprises him by asking if he would like to see the farm.

"How about it, Quasimodo?" she asks cheerily, looking out the window at the bright summer day. "Are you feeling well enough to stand?"

After a brief hesitation, he nods. "I-I think so," he says uncertainly.

"Great!" To his mild alarm, Marie strides over to the bed without a hint of trepidation and smoothly grasps his hand with both of hers. As she helps him to his feet, Quasimodo wavers for a moment, and she wraps a steadying arm around him, causing him to blush furiously. "You okay?" she inquires.

"Y-y-yes," he manages to reply, stammering even more so than usual.

With her assistance, he somehow survives the descent down the steep attic stairs, and permits her to show him around the rest of the cottage. It is a good deal more spacious than her little room, but just as cozy. As she leads him down to the kitchen, they encounter a young boy with dark hair and blue eyes: Marie's brother Gabriel, about whom he has heard much, but not yet seen. Marie introduces them hastily, and the boy is polite, though visibly nervous. Before they can get beyond "Nice to meet you", however, Quasimodo is steered through the kitchen and out the door.

The sunlight is dazzling, almost blinding. He holds up a hand to shade his eyes as they adjust to the sudden change. And then he has to catch his breath.

What a change from Paris. Instead of an endless sea of rooftops, as seen from the dizzying heights of his belltower, there is nothing for miles but rolling hills, green fields dotted with puffy white sheep, trees with great spreading branches, and blue skies. Even the air is different; it smells of life and animals and sweet, growing things. As a warm summer breeze lightly disarranges his hair, he feels his throat tighten. Everything here is so beautiful, so entirely new.

It's almost too much.

"Quasimodo?" He gradually becomes aware that Marie is frowning at him in concern. "Are you all right?"

Too overwhelmed to speak, he shakes his head.

Her frown deepens. "Do you want to go back inside?"

He shakes his head again, decisively.

After a moment, she smiles and tugs gently on his hand. "Come on then."

She shows him around the farm, taking him across the barnyard, to the henhouse, past the orchards, through the sheep pasture, and finally to the barn, where the animals are kept at night. He's not accustomed to so much walking, and after a while his limp begins to worsen. Marie notices and invites him to sit down on a bench outside the barn, where an enormous draft horse is munching passively on a bale of hay.

Quasimodo gratefully accepts the offer to sit, and Marie takes a seat beside him. She makes a clicking sound with her tongue to call the horse over. "André, come here and say hello, you lazy bum," she says, without a trace of harshness. Reluctantly abandoning his meal, the big animal ambles over to the girl and nuzzles her shoulder with obvious fondness. "You can pet him," she says. "He's just a big baby, really."

Cautiously, Quasimodo reaches out and places a hand on the horse's muzzle. The animal snorts softly, then lowers his head and allows himself to be petted. Quasimodo strokes the white blaze on his nose, quietly delighted.

Hiding a smile, Marie explains that three times a week, they hitch André up to a cart loaded with produce, eggs, and wool, and bring it into the city, where they sell it in the marketplace. The nobles buy the wool to have it woven into fine garments, and the students of the colleges — young, constantly hungry, and ever heedless of their purses — always manage to have money for food, when they're not spending it on ale. By the end of the day, the cart is almost always empty.

For a while Marie is silent, staring down at her fidgeting hands. Then suddenly she clears her throat. "By the way," she remarks casually — almost too casually, in Quasimodo's opinion, "I was talking to Uncle this morning. He wanted me to tell you that... that you're welcome to stay, if you're willing to help out."

He stares up at her in shock. She goes on hastily, "You see, it's such a big farm, and there's such a lot of work to be done, and not nearly enough people to do it. Bernard's a hard worker, but he's getting old, and Gabriel's just a kid. There's only so much he can reasonably be expected to—"

"Stay?" Quasimodo repeats in disbelief. "You mean, stay _here?_ On this farm?"

"Well... yes. Of course." She chuckles awkwardly. "Where else?"

"I accept," he says shyly.

As her gaze meets his, Marie's freckled face breaks out into a smile. "I was hoping you'd say that."

**

* * *

**

Hurrah! Wow, that took me forever. So at last, this story is getting slightly less depressing. I hope you're enjoying it so far. I'm certainly enjoying writing it. Please take the time to leave a review, and I'll be eternally grateful! In the meantime, I'll be working on chapter four.

**-R.R.**

***"With Open Arms"**


	4. Sain et Sauf

**Thanks, as always, goes out to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I'm especially honored, since my reviewers also happen to be fantastic writers. You lovely people, you!**

**Oh, also, I don't own the book or movie on which this is based.**

* * *

Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter Four: Sain et Sauf*

"Opinion's but a fool that makes us scan

The outward habit for the inward man."

— _Pericles_, William Shakespeare

The following morning dawns clear and warm and shockingly bright. The first dazzling rays stream in through the little window of the barn and cast stripes of sunlight across the dusty hayloft. Quasimodo instinctively rolls onto his side, shielding his face with a bulky forearm. But gradually, as the sounds of activity reach his ears from the barnyard outside — admittedly faint, for his hearing is less than perfect after ringing bells for most of his life — his desire for sleep is grudgingly replaced by curiosity, and he reluctantly opens his eyes.

For a moment he watches the dust motes drift lazily through the air, trying to recall where he is. He takes in the thatched roof above his head, the bales of hay surrounding him on all sides, and finally the sounds and smells of the animals somewhere below him. And then abruptly, he remembers.

On the previous night, in a bout of willpower which somewhat surprised even himself, Quasimodo insisted on henceforth sleeping in the loft above the barn. Marie protested at first, reminding him that he was still far from well, but he was adamant. He smiles now as he remembers the comically stricken look on the girl's expressive face.

"But what if there's an emergency, or if you suffer a relapse during the night, and I'm not there?" she persisted. It had been a long day, and she was in the middle of returning the sheep to the barn at the time. She had to pause in her argument to shove away an animal that was determined to chew on her apron.

Quasimodo took advantage of the interruption. "I-it's all right, mademoiselle," he haltingly assured her. "I'm... feeling much better now, really. I'm sure I'll be fine. Besides, I've... I've imposed on your hospitality long enough."

She raised an impatient hand to push back her thick hair, which had fallen into her face. "How many times have I asked you — very nicely, I might add — to call me Marie?" she huffed, annoyed. "Oh, would you just _let go_, you little muttonhead?" she growled at the offending sheep.

Surprised and a little hurt by her brusque demeanor, Quasimodo drew back and endeavored to make amends for his blunder. "I'm... I'm sorry, I keep forgetting," he mumbled in contrition.

Looking up, Marie took in his dejected appearance and immediately her expression softened, and the line that had appeared between her eyebrows vanished. "No, Quasimodo, don't apologize," she said, her fingers absently brushing the sleeve of his frayed tunic. As his mind returns to the event, he remembers being struck by the oddly tender gesture. "I guess _I_ keep forgetting that... well, that you haven't had much social interaction. I should have been more understanding. I'm sorry."

_She's apologizing to _me? Quasimodo shook his head, more than a little overwhelmed. He tried to hide his conflicting emotions by gently disengaging the sheep from its single-minded purpose. "I-I don't... blame you," he said at last, his eyes on the ground. "Most people are... upset by my appearance. Th-they say and do things that, that they would never think of doing under normal circumstances. It's..." He sighed and shrugged his huge, awkward shoulders. "It's only natural."

He felt Marie's small hand on his arm, and he had to make a conscious effort not to flinch. He forced himself to look up at her, and her gaze was somehow both angry and sad at the same time.

"It's not natural," she said in a low voice. "It's not even animal. It's just wrong."

Her hand fell away, and Quasimodo realized that he had been holding his breath. As he slowly released it, Marie turned away, clearing her throat. "I let you distract me, you devious boy," she said with a somewhat forced laugh. "But I'm still not going to let you catch a cold up there in that musty old hayloft. Arnaud would have my hide for sure. And then who would bring you breakfast every morning? Did you think about that?"

As they conducted the last of the sheep into the barn, it finally dawned on Quasimodo that the girl's habit of playful bantering was often a way of disguising her real concern. _Imagine,_ he thought in amazement, _someone like her being worried about someone like me._

"Marie?" he said hesitantly.

"Yes? Hey, you said my name! See, that wasn't so hard."

He looked at her profile, with its small, full mouth and silly little turned-up nose, and felt something in him begin to crumble; something which had been as hard and unyielding as stone. "Your kindness is almost too much to bear," he blurted before he could stop himself.

She turned quickly toward him, her brow contracted in anxiety. "Oh, Quasimodo, I never meant to—"

"Please, don't misunderstand me," he hastened to continue, mortified that he had actually voiced his admission to her very face. "I, I really do... appreciate your concern. B-But I'm feeling much better, honestly. You don't need to worry about me."

The girl gave him a long, scrutinizing look, and finally sighed. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, allowing himself a timid smile, which she returned.

Now, as he sits up and stretches all the unlikely angles of his frame, Quasimodo feels another smile begin to spread on his face. Though still barely able to grasp the concept of anyone being concerned for his well-being, he is nonetheless eternally grateful to Marie and her family for everything they've done for him — more grateful than he can begin to express, even to himself. Such acts of kindness have been so rare an occurrence in his short, comfortless existence that he feels compelled to repay them with all his heart.

It was an idea which one young gypsy girl found difficult to understand. Unshed tears burn his eyes as the memory haunts him for the thousandth time: the beautiful dancer sitting there in his belltower, dressed in her pure white robe with a pretty goat lying in her lap, staring up at him in a mixture of confusion, pity, and ill-disguised horror: _"Why? Why did you save me?"_

A silent sob escapes him before he is able to regain his composure. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, remembering what Marie told him: _"Don't despair."_

As he folds his blanket and places it neatly on top of his straw mattress, he hears a shout of laughter from somewhere outside, along with an angry squawking noise. Dressing quickly in some simple, rather ill-fitting clothes he was given by Arnaud the day before, Quasimodo limps over to the little window overlooking the barnyard below. The young boy Gabriel is chasing his sister up and down the footpath from the farmhouse to the well, carrying an irate, flapping chicken in his arms. Laughing, the girl whirls round on her brother and swats him playfully on the arm.

Quasimodo hears a quiet chuckle, and realizes with some surprise that it came from him.

As he watches from the window, Marie suddenly looks up and spots him. His first impulse is to stumble backward in embarrassment as if he's been caught doing something wrong, but she greets him with a smile and a wave. "Hey up there, Quasimodo!" she calls up to him. "Come on down and have breakfast with us!"

He struggles to think of an appropriate response to this simple, friendly invitation. "I... I'll... be right down," he finally replies, rebuking himself for his perpetual lack of words. He wishes desperately that he knew how to speak to people, but he's had so few associations in his life. The majority of his conversations have been held with the still, silent statues and gargoyles that kept him company in the cold, forbidding cathedral which he called his home for nearly twenty years. And as much as he liked to imagine otherwise, stone never talked back.

Sighing to himself, Quasimodo climbs down the ladder from the hayloft to the floor of the barn, where the sheep are still waiting patiently to be let out into the field. A few of the animals sniff at him curiously, but on the whole they pay him no notice. He wades slowly through the sea of white before reaching the door and carefully letting himself out.

Outside, the summer sun bathes everything in its warm light, causing the farm to take on a rich, vibrant quality. The air smells crisp and green, like wildflowers and freshly-turned soil. Or at least, this is what it would smell like to anyone else; being inexperienced in the countless scents which bombard the rest of humankind each and every day, Quasimodo can't begin to place these commonplace, ordinary aromas. All he knows is that they are wonderful.

As he stands there, inhaling deeply, Marie strolls up to him, watching him with an amused smile. "Well, good morning, sunshine," she says easily. "You're looking a lot better. Although it appears I'm going to have to custom-tailor you some tunics," she adds, plucking at his sleeve. "I'd like to know what Uncle was thinking when he gave you these. He's much too scrawny to be sharing his clothes with you."

"I don't mind," he replies awkwardly, not wishing to be a bother.

"Gabriel!" she calls over her shoulder to her younger brother, who is hanging back behind the girl and watching Quasimodo with obvious apprehension. At her beckoning, the boy comes hesitantly forward. "Where are your manners? Come say good morning."

The boy gives her a sour look before mumbling, "Good morning."

"Good morning, Gabriel," Quasimodo replies, as innocuously as he knows how. He is all too aware of the emotions which his appearance inspires in people. "...I hope you slept well," he adds.

Gabriel shrugs negligently. "Yeah, I guess." He looks up at him through narrowed eyes. "Hey, is it really true that you poured a vat of molten lead off the top of Notre-Dame and killed a bunch of Truands? Because _I_ heard from Laurent Toulouse—"

"_Gabriel!_" Marie exclaims in mortification, clamping a hand over his mouth. She casts an apologetic look at Quasimodo, whose face is burning with shame. "Sorry, he's got this disease where he speaks every single thing that comes into his head." She gives her brother an irritated shove on the arm. "Go bring in the eggs, and make yourself conspicuous by your absence, will you?"

He rolls his eyes. "All right, all right."

As he trudges off to the chicken coop, Marie lets out an exasperated sigh. "I swear, if he wasn't family—"

"He's right, though," Quasimodo says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"About what?" But as soon as she speaks the words, she falls silent again just as quickly. "Oh," she says at last.

He turns away, unable to endure her gaze any longer. He can't imagine what she must think of him. "I... I-I didn't know," he finds himself stammering miserably, his throat constricting further with every word. "I can't hear so well. I thought they were coming to kill her. If I had known that... th-that they didn't mean her any harm, I would never have—"

She stops him with a hand on his massive shoulder. "That's all over now," she says simply.

He doesn't quite know what to say. He's not sure he could bring himself to speak, even if he did.

"Look, I admit, I don't know much about you, Quasimodo," she continues, unaware of his emotional turmoil. "I only know that you must have had... a very difficult life up to now." He somehow manages to hold back a bitter laugh. _There's an understatement if I ever heard one._ "I can't even imagine the things you've been through — the things that have been done to you."

He is silent. He's thinking of the countless scars that adorn his already unsightly back: his reward for remaining faithful to his master. He can still see the provost's stern face, incited to further anger by Quasimodo's inability to hear the judge's faint, mumbled questions. _"Bellringer! Bellringer! I'll make them ring a peal of rods on your back through every street in Paris! Do you hear me, knave?"_

Oh yes. He heard _that._

"But whatever's happened — listen," says Marie, gently turning his face and forcing him to meet her eyes. "Whatever's happened in the past, then it's just that: in the past. You can either let it consume you, or you can move on. Start over. Begin again." She folds her arms over her chest and looks at him expectantly. "So. What's it going to be?"

As he returns her frank, grayish-green gaze, Quasimodo feels his own eyes well with tears. "I want to start over," he whispers. "So very badly."

She smiles enigmatically. "Then what are you waiting for?"

If he was groping for words earlier, it was nothing compared to now. He simply has no voice.

With a chuckle, the girl takes his arm and steers him toward the farmhouse. "Right, come on then," she says lightly. "Don't let me down."

Quasimodo shakes his head fervently. _I won't._

* * *

As the hot sun beats down on the fields which encompass the Lefévre farm, Quasimodo wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. His hair and clothes are damp with perspiration, and his forearms are beginning to turn an alarming shade of pink. Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to focus on the task at hand. Plucking a handful of thin green beans from the row of climbing plants before him, he drops them into the large woven basket at his side. He peers dubiously down at the basket; not even half full. At this rate, they'll be here all day.

He gives a sudden jump as he hears a loud exhalation from the other side of the plants. He hesitates a moment, before venturing to ask, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," comes the reply from the next row. "I'm just melting away like butter, that's all."

Quasimodo smiles to himself. He is glad that Marie was chosen by her uncle to acquaint him with the various chores on the farm. Although Arnaud and Bernard are both very kind men, he would feel intimidated under their direction. As for young Gabriel, he is only a child, and obviously still terrified of him; he was notably silent all throughout breakfast that morning. But Marie has been by his side from his very first day here, and he is accustomed to her presence, even at ease. He finds her gentle, placid demeanor to be almost soothing.

Still, he rather prefers this: being near Marie and yet unable to be seen by her. He can enjoy her company without worrying whether he is making her uncomfortable by his appearance. Granted, she has not displayed any discomfort so far. But he can't help feeling self-conscious when her eyes are on him. She shouldn't have to look on such ugliness. No one should.

_"...That doesn't hurt you, does it, that I come to look at you when you are sleeping? Does it matter if I am here when your eyes are closed?..."_

Shaking his head forcefully, he wills himself to clear his mind. It will do no good to dwell on the past. He tries desperately to think of something to talk about, if only to distract him, but Marie beats him to it.

"Quasimodo?"

He clears his throat. "Yes?"

"What's your favorite color?"

At this he blinks. No one has ever asked him such a question before. "I... I have no idea," he confesses, somewhat abashed.

"Say what?" Marie climbs to her feet and peers over the row of plants at him. He quickly ducks his head. "What do you mean? Everyone has a favorite color."

"I've never really thought about it," he replies quietly, looking down at the backs of his sunburned hands.

There is a short silence. Then the girl sinks back down out of sight. "Well, that's all right," she says offhandedly. "Just keep it in mind. I've still got to make you some tunics, remember?"

He briefly considers protesting, but in the end, he decides it probably wouldn't matter. She would make them anyway.

As he continues to pick beans, he catches a glimpse of reddish-brown between the leaves. If he leans forward, he can just make out the girl's diminutive form. Her thick hair is piled on her head to keep her neck cool, and in the full sunlight, it seems to shine like burnished bronze. It's the same color, he realizes, as the enormous bell which shares her name.

_Little Marie,_ he thinks with another smile.

He has removed all of the ripe beans from the plant in front of him and is preparing to move on to the next when he hears a rustle from somewhere to his right, followed by some rather loud whispering. Out of the corner of his good eye, he detects sudden movement. He stiffens, all his senses on full alert. Then, slowly, he looks over his shoulder. He can't help letting out a groan of dismay at the sight which greets him.

Children. They're always the _worst._

On this particular occasion, it happens to be three young boys, the eldest perhaps just entering into his teens. The other two are some years younger, one short and plump and the other scrawny and pale. They are huddled together in a close group on the other side of the row opposite him, partially obscured by the foliage, studying him closely in mingled horror and fascination. They appear to be keeping their distance. For now.

Quasimodo faces forward and returns to his work, doing his best to ignore them. Marie, on the other hand, must have heard either the boys' approach or his own defeated groan, because she now stands up and addresses them, her arms folded across her chest.

"Afternoon, lads," she says, an almost imperceptible edge to her low, even voice. "Something we can do for you?"

The boys stumble back in surprise, apparently unaware of her presence until now. "Marie!" the oldest boy exclaims, his eyes darting back and forth nervously. "Wh-What are you doing out here with this... this..."

"Oh, do you mean my friend here?" She nods her head toward Quasimodo. "I figured you all would have heard by now. This is our new farmhand. Quasimodo, these are our neighbors, Laurent Toulouse and his brother Henri, and Christophe du Maurier. Come and say hello, boys."

"We _know_ who he is," says the little skinny blond one, putting on a brave front despite his obvious reluctance to leave his refuge behind the bushes. "Everyone knows who he is. He's the hunchback of Notre-Dame."

"Really," Marie says uninterestedly, dropping a few more beans into her basket.

"Yeah, really," he persists, offended at being ignored. "They say he killed his master, the archdeacon of Josas. He was a sorcerer, and the hunchback was his pet demon. But he got tired of doing the archdeacon's dirty work. You shouldn't stand so close to him, Marie. He could cast a spell on you."

As Quasimodo discreetly wipes a few drops of excess moisture from his eyes, Marie gives a tight smile. "I do _so_ appreciate your concern for my safety, Christophe," she says dryly, "but I'm perfectly all right, thank you. I'm afraid we still have a lot of work to do, so if you three will excuse us." She gives a short, somewhat flippant curtsey and disappears out of sight.

The oldest boy scoffs in disbelief. "Are you blind, girl, or are you just stupid?" he spits.

Very slowly and deliberately, Marie rises to her feet again. When she speaks, her voice is disconcertingly calm. "I can't imagine what you mean, Laurent."

"_Look_ at him, Marie," he says, pointing an accusing finger at Quasimodo. "He's a monster. An imp. A demon. Whatever you choose to call him, he's been sent straight from Hell. You'd have to be a fool not to see it." He gives a snort. "But I guess if your uncle's fool enough to let him live here, there's nothing you can do about it."

It happens so fast that Quasimodo almost fails to see it. In one smooth, lightning-quick movement, Marie grabs a bean from the bucket beside her and chucks it at Laurent, hitting him square between the eyes.

With a howl of pain, he claps a hand to his forehead, while the other two boys look on in barely suppressed amusement. "Oww, that stung!" he cries indignantly.

"Serves you right, you little insect," Marie says bluntly and with no hint of remorse. "Now go on home. I'm sure you have better things to do than stand around and get pelted with vegetables."

"My father will hear about this," Laurent snaps at her as they run off, still rubbing the red spot on his head.

"Good!" the girl calls after them. "Why don't you tell him exactly what precipitated it, while you're at it?" She rolls her eyes as she dusts her hands off on her apron. "I doubt if he even knows what 'precipitated' means," she mutters.

Quasimodo can hardly find the words to speak. When he does, his stutter is worse than usual. "Y-you didn't have to s-scold them," he manages to say.

"Oh, no?" Marie's voice is hard and bitter. "No one calls my uncle a fool, especially on his own farm. And _no_ one insults my friends. _Least_ of all a bratty little upstart like Laurent Toulouse."

"It's all right," he murmurs.

"It is _not_ all right, Quasimodo!" she nearly shouts in frustration. Then she pauses for a moment, and takes a deep breath. "When my uncle first came here," she resumes more calmly, "I was so scared. My mother was dead, my father was very ill, and my brother was just a baby. I didn't know what would happen to us. But Arnaud promised me that we'd be all right. That we'd be safe. And ever since then, he's always tried to make sure that this farm continues to be a safe, happy place for all of us." Her voice has resumed its usual, gentle, placid manner. "As long as you're here, the same goes for you, too."

The lump which has suddenly formed in his throat renders any sort of response impossible.

At any rate, it's at this moment that the crunch of footsteps gains both of their attention. Marie looks up sharply, ready to further defend her family's honor with vegetable artillery, but as Quasimodo turns round, he sees Gabriel running frantically toward them along the dirt path between the rows, panting from exertion.

"Marie," he says breathlessly as he skids to a halt. His clothes are in disarray, and his dark hair is sticking up at odd angles. He is, inexplicably, grinning from ear to ear. "Laurent told me you beaned him with a bean."

Before she can reply, the boy leaps clean over the row of plants and hugs his sister tightly, nearly lifting her off the ground. "_Gabriel!_ What on earth—"

"It should've been me, though," he says dejectedly, looking down at his dusty shoes. "I deserve it. I know I shouldn't have, but I told them about Quasimodo. They were giving me such a hard time about what happened at Montfaucon; even though _they_ ran, too, the wimps." He shakes his head in disgust. "They wouldn't believe me, so I told them to go see for themselves. It was stupid of me. I'm really sorry, Quasimodo."

He watches in amazement as the boy holds his hand out over the plants. Then, as if in a dream, he finds himself standing up and grasping it in his. "I forgive you, Gabriel," he says softly.

Marie is smiling to herself. Then, abruptly, her eyes go wide. "_Goodness_, Quasimodo! Your skin is as red as your hair! Why didn't you tell me you were getting sunburned?"

"I don't—"

"Come with me," she says, already making her way back through the fields toward the farmhouse, Gabriel trotting behind her. "We've got to put something on that right away."

* * *

Arnaud has to admit, he didn't really take the lad's complexion into account when he sent him out with Marie to harvest the crops. In fact, his first impulse when he sees Quasimodo's face, nearly as red as a crabapple, is to burst out laughing.

Of course, he doesn't. That would be terribly rude and unnecessarily hurtful. But it takes every ounce of self-control to keep a straight face. As Marie invites the boy in her usual motherly way to have a seat, Gabriel catches Arnaud's eye. It's clear he's trying desperately not to smile, as well.

Bernard enters the kitchen carrying a pail of sheep's milk and hands it over to Marie. She thanks him briefly and proceeds to add to the pail a mixture of honey and lavender. She then takes a cloth and allows it to soak in the concoction, while Quasimodo watches her with obvious curiosity.

"All right," she says at last, bringing the pail over to the kitchen table. "You're going to want to wash up after this. You will definitely not smell very pretty if you allow it to dry."

Quasimodo nods uncertainly. After wringing out the cloth a bit, the girl begins to gently swab his reddened skin. He winces at first, but slowly allows himself to relax, still carefully avoiding her gaze.

As Marie tends to his burns, Gabriel gives a light chuckle. "I guess we're going to have to assign Quasi some different chores," he says. "Some that don't involve being out in the sun all day."

"Quasi," Marie repeats with a faint smile. "I like that. Turn your head this way? That's it..."

Bernard sits down beside Arnaud, cracking the knuckles of his gnarled hands. "I suppose I could show him how to look after André. The horse seems to like him all right."

Arnaud nods distractedly, watching the two young people. It's difficult to tell what Quasimodo is thinking — his distorted features and hunched shoulders combine to make him look perpetually ill at ease. On the other hand, he's always been able to read Marie like a book. It's easy to see, from her soft smile and the tender manner with which she applies the remedy to his burned skin, that she is already becoming quite attached to the quiet, painfully shy boy.

He didn't count on this.

"I think I've chosen my favorite color," Quasimodo says after a while.

"Oh, yeah?" She absently dabs his forehead with the cloth. "Tell me."

"It's... the color of your hair."

Her smile widens.

_Oh, dear,_ Arnaud thinks to himself.

* * *

**Wow, that was long. I didn't mean for it to be quite that long! Oh, well. I'm just glad I got it done before tomorrow. I'm going camping, yay! Well, I hope you liked it. I'll be sure to get cracking on the next chapter when I get back. Please review! :)**

**-R.R.**

*** "Safe and Sound"**


	5. En Famille

**I cannot begin to express my gratitude for all your kind reviews. Especially what with my being a fanfiction noob. You guys are the best! I really hope you like this latest chapter. Therefore, I will shut up and let you read it.**

**I claim no ownership of the novel or movie on which this is based.**

* * *

Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter Five: En Famille*

The August sunshine bathes the Lefévre farm in its cheery warmth, and Marie finds herself gazing longingly out the window for the millionth time. As the smell of sour sheep's milk pervades the hot, stuffy kitchen, she wrinkles her nose in disgust. One of the nicest days this year, and she's stuck inside making cheese.

With a sigh, she wipes the sweat from her forehead with her apron and continues to stir the milk over the fire. It's not that she resents being obliged to do what Arnaud teasingly refers to as "woman's work". In fact, she is more than happy to do her part to make sure that the farm runs smoothly and that the workload doesn't rest too heavily on anyone else. But today, she'd give anything to be out in the orchard, picking pears with Gabriel. Or even in the barn, cleaning the horse's hooves with Quasimodo. At least then she'd have someone to talk to.

Quasimodo. What a name. Marie doesn't know as much Latin as her uncle does, but she knows enough to be righteously indignant at the very idea of referring to someone as woefully deformed as her friend as an "almost". She is glad, at least, that he doesn't object to being called "Quasi", but it still seems wrong. He is not _almost_ anything.

It has been over a month since he joined their small household, and he has proven to be a hard worker and a fast learner. Arnaud is definitely pleased with how well he has settled into the routine of things. Old Bernard remarked to her just the other day that he has never seen anyone so good with animals. Even Gabriel, who was a little apprehensive at first around the hunchback, seems to have had a complete change of heart. Indeed, poor Quasimodo can hardly get a moment's relief from the boy's friendly chatter.

Still, there's no denying that he has his peculiarities. He steadfastly refuses to accompany them into the city to sell their produce. Naturally, Marie cannot blame him for that; if she'd been mistreated by society as cruelly as he has been, she would be reluctant to mingle with the public, too. Arnaud makes sure, whenever they go into Paris, to bring some little something back for him, as a sort of recompense for staying behind: an apple tart or a deck of cards or some inexpensive paper on which to practice his writing. Recently and for some strange reason, Quasimodo requested some paints and brushes. _At least he's easy to please,_ Marie thinks with a smile.

He still insists on sleeping in the hayloft over the barn. Gabriel even offered to share his own room with him, but Quasimodo declined — politely, of course. Marie suspects that the loft — dark and dusty and accessible only by a ladder — must remind him of the bell tower at Notre-Dame. Although he seems to wish not to be reminded of his past and carefully avoids speaking of it, the cathedral was, after all, his only notion of home for nearly twenty years. No doubt there is something comfortably familiar in the association.

And, perhaps unsurprisingly, he still won't look Marie or anyone else in the eye for more than a second or two. She sincerely hopes that one day he will be able to overcome his shyness, but she's not altogether certain if he ever will.

_Oh, well,_ she thinks with a shrug. _Give it some more time._

He is certainly full of surprises, though. Only the week before, she heard singing in André's stable and was astonished to learn that it was Quasimodo, singing some Latin mass — presumably the only sort of music he has ever heard — while brushing the tangles from the horse's mane. His voice was nothing short of angelic. Unfortunately, he noticed her standing behind him with her mouth dumbly open, and broke off in embarrassment. She hasn't heard him since.

On another occasion, she went into the barn to look for him, with the purpose of calling him in for dinner, and found him sitting on a bale of hay, whittling away at a chunk of wood. When she asked what he was working on, he quickly stashed it out of sight. But this was not what afforded her so much surprise. Perched on his massive shoulder, fast asleep, was the farm's gray and white cat, an animal so infamous for her ill temper that Marie still bears the scars of her wrath. How Quasimodo managed to get on the cat's good side was completely beyond her. Arnaud's amused response, upon hearing of it, was only, "There's just something about him, I guess."

_That's putting it mildly._

She has already added ale to the milk to accelerate the curdling process, and all that is left to do is to drain the whey from the curds. As she squeezes the liquid out of the solid, wobbly mass, she preserves the whey in a separate bowl to be given to the cat later — though she hardly deserves it. She then salts the curds, and is in the process of pressing them into a wooden mold when she's interrupted by a sudden commotion outside.

"Hey, Marie!" Gabriel arrives breathless in the kitchen entrance, leaving her to wonder if he ever goes anywhere without running at full speed. "Look what Quasimodo made for me!"

Marie's eyebrows climb toward her hairline as the boy holds up a handsome wooden toy boat, a little over a foot long. Its prow is carved with intricate details, and it even has a sail made from an old scrap of canvas. She takes it slowly from his hands, staring at in awe. _So this is what he was making the other day in the barn,_ she thinks. As she turns it over, she realizes that the little vessel has already been given a name, painted on its stern with painstaking precision: _Mariette_.

_Little Marie._

"It's wonderful," she says, her heart giving an entirely unexpected leap.

"Isn't she great?" Gabriel remarks, taking it from her again. "She actually floats, too. I tested her earlier. I'm taking her out to the pond now to see how fast she can go. Do you want to come?"

"Sure, just let me finish up here, and then I've got to take this whey out to the barn for the cat. Did you thank him?" she asks pointedly, before he can run off again.

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, _Mother_. Come on, hurry up!"

Marie finishes pressing the cheese and follows him out into the barnyard, carrying the whey with both hands and attempting not to slosh it around. As Gabriel hurries off toward the pond — little more than a puddle at this time of year, but beggars can't be choosers — she makes her way to the barn and sets down the bowl, beckoning the cat with cooing noises. "Here, kitty! Come and get it, Bijou! It's not like I make cheese every day, so take what you can get," she mutters under her breath.

She hears the sudden creak of wooden boards above her head. "Quasi?" she calls. "Are you up there?"

After a moment, a mop of shaggy red hair appears over the edge of the hayloft. "Y-Yes, I'm here," Quasimodo replies in his quiet voice.

Marie smiles. "I guess you must have finished grooming André. Gabriel and I are going out to the pond, to send the boat you made for him on its maiden voyage. Would you like to come with us?"

That he hesitates only briefly is an encouraging sign of how far he has come. "All right," he says simply.

She barely manages to suppress a gasp of worry and alarm as Quasimodo grabs hold of a nearby beam in his enormous hands and uses it to swing down to the straw-covered floor of the barn. _Good Lord,_ she thinks wildly, _I'll never get used to that._

"It's gorgeous," she tells him as he limps over to her and reaches down to pet the cat, which has materialized seemingly out of nowhere to greet him. "The boat, I mean. That was such a sweet thing you did." He blushes and ducks his head, dismissing the compliment. "You didn't have to hide it from me earlier, you know. I wouldn't have told Gabe."

"It wasn't finished," he says modestly, tickling the cat behind the ears.

Marie watches in bemusement. "If I tried to pull that, I'd get raked by those claws for sure," she remarks. "You're the only person she's ever liked."

Quasimodo gives an embarrassed shrug and straightens again; at least, as far as his crooked back will allow. "I've learned something about cats," he says reflectively after a moment. "They're just like humans."

"Oh? How so?"

"They don't make any sense."

She laughs, nodding wordlessly in agreement. _Truer words were never spoken._

"I had no idea you were so talented," she tells him as they leave the barn and make their way leisurely toward the pond, which is situated on the far side of the orchard. Quasimodo shields his eyes momentarily from the light of the late afternoon sun. "I'll bet you could sell toys and models and things at the market, for a lot of money. The nobles would go mad for them."

His cheeks redden to match his hair. "Oh... It's not that good," he replies sheepishly.

Marie blinks in disbelief. "Not that good?" she echoes. "Are you kidding? It's beautiful! Give yourself a little credit."

"Well..."

She sighs in mock exasperation. "Just say thank you, Quasi," she says with a smile.

"...Thank you, Marie."

She gives his arm a friendly squeeze. At the pond, the shade from a great, ancient oak tree gives them welcome relief from the sun's rays. Gabriel is racing back and forth along the water's edge, watching the sailboat closely, ready to leap in and snatch it out at the least hint of trouble. But the little wooden craft seems perfectly seaworthy as it cuts a V-shaped wake across the glass-like surface of the pond.

"Wow, look at it go," she says, impressed.

"You mean, look at _her_ go," Gabriel corrects her matter-of-factly.

Marie chuckles. "Yes, no doubt that's what I must have meant," she answers dryly.

"She's a fine vessel," the boy announces, every inch the proud captain. "Although," he adds as an afterthought, "I think you should have given her a much grander name, Quasi. Like... I don't know... _Empress of the Sea_ or something."

"I like _Mariette_," the girl says with an affectionate glance at Quasimodo.

As Gabriel reaches out across the water, points the boat in a different direction, and sends it off on its way again, Quasimodo notices Marie watching him and blushes. But she only smiles at him, and after a moment, he smiles shyly in return.

* * *

Bernard Morel doesn't like wasting time. He doesn't like being behind schedule. And he most definitely doesn't like what he's seeing right now.

It is Saturday morning, the third and final day of the week devoted to selling goods in the city, and everyone is lagging behind. Arnaud has still not returned from taking the sheep out to pasture, Marie is clearing away the remnants of breakfast, and Gabriel can't for the life of him seem to find his left shoe. Quasimodo, who is usually so assiduous in carrying out his chores, should have hitched André up to the produce cart by now, but the horse is still in his stable, munching away at his oats.

Bernard frowns in confusion and annoyance. It's not like the boy to shirk his duties. Where the devil is he?

The old farmhand spies Arnaud's lanky figure returning from the pasture and calls out to him. "Have you seen Quasimodo?"

Arnaud shakes his head. "Check the kitchen," he calls back. "He's bound to be hovering around Marie."

_Good point._ He gives a nod and ambles back to the farmhouse, where Marie is putting the dishes and utensils back in their proper places. Sure enough, the hunchback is sitting on the stool by the hearth, staring blankly at a fixed spot on the wall and holding something delicately in his giant, troll-like hands. He appears to be utterly oblivious to the girl's presence.

Bernard huffs, his irritation exacerbated by the sight. He doesn't like daydreaming, either. "Quasimodo!"

The young man looks up with a start, quickly stuffing whatever it was he was holding inside the green tunic Marie made for him. "Y-Yes, monsieur?" he asks nervously.

"What have you been doing all morning? It's nearly time to leave, and André isn't even hitched up to the wagon. Get your head out of the clouds, and get moving!"

"I'm sorry, monsieur, I-I'll get on it right away," says Quasimodo miserably, edging his way past Bernard out the door, his face contorted in shame. The old farmhand sighs, instantly regretting his brusque manner.

Marie's disapproval is all too evident as she purses her lips at him, and he is reminded of the girl's mother. "You didn't have to be so harsh with him, Bernard."

"I know, cricket. It's just too easy to forget that he's..." He shakes his head. "That he's heard more than his share of harsh words."

As he turns to leave, the girl stops him with a hand on his arm. "That... thing he carries around with him, that amulet that... _she_ was wearing," she says under her breath. "I think it's holding him back."

Bernard nods. "I'll talk to him."

As he returns to the barnyard, he looks on as Quasimodo quickly leads the enormous draft horse out of the barn and proceeds to attach its bridle to the wagon's traces. After a moment, he walks over to the wooden bench outside the barn and pulls it over to where the boy is working. He can feel his intense blue-green eyes watching him.

At his approach, Quasimodo averts his gaze, hastening his actions. But Bernard simply lowers himself onto the bench, his bones creaking in protest. "Come and sit down, son," he says mildly.

Warily, Quasimodo lets go of the traces and limps over, taking a seat beside him. "I... apologize for my laziness, monsieur," he says quietly, staring down at his large hands with something disconcertingly close to disgust. "It won't happen again."

Bernard waves a hand dismissively. "Don't let it trouble you. You know I didn't mean to snap at you. Can you forgive a tired old grouch?"

"Yes, monsieur."

He chuckles. "Do me a favor, and call me Bernard, like everybody else. I'm not the king."

The young man's lips twitch in a brief, faint smile. "Yes, Bernard."

They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the nearby clucking of the chickens, as well as the more distant bleating of the sheep. By now the sun has already risen above the top of the giant oak tree over by the pond. When they finally leave for the city — _if_ they ever leave, that is — they will be fortunate indeed if they can find a place in the market to set up shop.

"Quasimodo," says Bernard at length, "I wonder if you'd let me see that charm you carry under your tunic."

Quasimodo starts visibly. "What?"

"I know you heard me, lad. Your ears are better than mine."

With no small amount of trepidation, the boy reaches inside the collar of his tunic and pulls out the little silken bag adorned with green glass, which is secured around his neck by a string of beads. His hands tremble as he lifts it over his head and passes it to Bernard.

The old farmhand examines it with interest. There is nothing about it to suggest that it has any intrinsic monetary value. It merely looks like something an impoverished woman would wear because she thought it was pretty or that it would bring her good luck. But Quasimodo clearly regards it as some sort of holy relic. He cannot take his eyes off it.

"I know what it is like," Bernard says slowly, "to lose someone you love. Believe me, I've been around long enough to know. It hurts. By the Lord, it hurts more than anything in the world."

Quasimodo sighs heavily, and his head seems to sink down even further between his shoulders, but he says nothing.

"I don't know whether you were aware of this," Bernard continues, resting the silk bag very carefully on his knobby knee, "but I've known the Lefévre family since I was ten years old. Arnaud's father and I were like brothers. Not only did I watch Marie grow up, but I was there when Arnaud and his brother were born. They were twins. Did you know that?" Quasimodo shakes his head numbly. "René was the oldest, by half an hour. They did everything together. That is, until they reached their teen years.

"Arnaud wanted to be a scholar, and René felt it was his duty, being the _elder_ brother," he says with a wry smile, "to stay and help look after the farm. It was while Arnaud was away at college that René met Louise. And she was beautiful. I see a lot of her in Marie." He pauses for a space, lost in his reminiscences.

"René loved her dearly. And Arnaud, too, grew to love her like a sister. But when Louise died while giving birth to Gabriel, it tore René apart. He lost the will to live, and nothing could bring it back. Not even his own children." He shakes his head sadly. "He just... faded away. His grief killed him."

Quasimodo, who was silent during this entire speech — incidentally, Bernard's longest speech in years — finally tears his gaze away from the amulet and looks curiously up at him. "I thought he died of an infectious fever."

Bernard clears his throat. "Well... yes," he says at last. "But his grief was to blame for that, too. When he became ill, he didn't try to fight it. He didn't have the strength, or even the desire." He leans forward, and his voice drops to a low murmur. "You can't live for a memory, Quasimodo. It's not good enough. You have to find something _here_. In _this_ life. Do you understand?"

Unshed tears swim in the young man's eyes, but he seems to make it a point not to let them fall. At last he nods wordlessly.

Satisfied, Bernard tucks the little silken bag safely away into his own tunic, despite Quasimodo's wide-eyed expression of protest. "I'll hang onto this for a while, if it's all right with you. Wouldn't want anything to happen to it." He rests a gnarled hand on the boy's shoulder. "When you're ready, you can have it back."

With a quiet sniff, Quasimodo nods again.

Bernard smiles. "Good lad."

He stands up again, somewhat painfully, and as he assists Quasimodo in getting the horse's bridle secured, the rest of the household arrives in time to load the wagon with eggs, wool, and produce. Gabriel, he's pleased to note, has finally found his other shoe.

As Marie starts to hoist herself up into the cart, Bernard catches her by the wrist. "Why don't you sit this one out, cricket?" he suggests. "You deserve a break."

She blinks in confusion. "I do?"

"Sure you do," he insists, gently prying her away from the wagon. "Sometimes I think you work the hardest out of all of us. It can't be easy, cleaning up after a bunch of filthy men."

"But—"

"Don't worry, we can manage without you just this once. Just stay here and relax." He inclines toward her and adds, inaudible to everyone else, "Keep Quasimodo company."

Marie regards him silently for a moment before nodding her comprehension. Then she turns to the boy with a bright smile. "Quasi, have I ever shown you the old bestiary that Uncle brought back with him from college?" He shakes his head slowly, still looking somewhat dazed. "It's hilarious!" she continues. "It's got this animal that looks like a camel, but with a long neck and leopard spots! Can you imagine anything so ridiculous? Come on, let me show you!"

Meekly, Quasimodo allows himself to be dragged away, while the others look on in obvious curiosity. Arnaud turns toward Bernard and clears his throat. "Bernard," he says in an odd voice, putting a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Old friend. What are you up to?"

Bernard gives a noncommittal shrug and smiles. "Just looking after my own."

* * *

After the others have gone, Quasimodo waits patiently at the bottom of the stairs. Overhead, the sounds of Marie's frustrated attempts to find her uncle's book can clearly be heard even to his somewhat impaired senses. As he waits, his mind drifts back to his earlier conversation with Bernard. He wonders what on earth possessed him to hand the old man the amulet, and still more what possessed him to let him _keep_ it. What was he thinking?

The longer he dwells on it, he is convinced that the farmhand identified his problem correctly. He can't deny it any longer: something is holding him back. Every time he feels he has finally rid himself of the cobwebs of his past, they inevitably return, even thicker and more tenacious than before. Every time he finds himself alone, the memories return — relentlessly, remorselessly.

Every time he closes his eyes, _she_ is there, with her twirling dress and her pretty pout and her flashing dark eyes. He can't forget her. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't. She won't let him.

Perhaps giving Bernard the amulet _was_ the best thing he could have done.

The clatter of footsteps on the floorboards above recalls him back to the present. He forces himself to muster a smile as Marie appears at the top of the stairs with a behemoth of a book in her hands, all tan leather and gilt pages. Her hair, almost always in a state of disarray, is even more unkempt than usual. "Found it," she says breathlessly. "Let's look at it outside. It's too nice a day to be cooped up in here."

As they sit together under the cool shade of the oak tree, poring over the illustrations of various beasts and discussing which are real, which are embellished, and which are a complete fabrication on the part of the author, Quasimodo steals little glances now and then at his companion. She seems to have acquired even more freckles since he first met her over a month ago, but he thinks they suit her. Not that he's an expert on feminine beauty, by any means. After all, she is the only woman he has ever known, other than... _her._

They're so different, he thinks to himself. Where one was exotic, mysterious, and almost otherworldly, the other is simple, unadorned, and practical. Where one was feisty and vivacious, the other is calm and mild-tempered. While one's personality was not unlike the stubborn, spirited little goat which accompanied her everywhere, the other's is more like that of a sheep: gentle, placid, and imperturbable.

Where one averted her eyes from him in horror and dismay, the other looks on him with kindness.

After deriving considerable amusement at the author's expense over the subject of a goose that is alleged to grow from trees, Marie closes the book in her lap with a sigh. "So," she says at length. "What do you want to do now?"

Having come to a private decision, Quasimodo takes a deep breath and musters the nerve to speak. "Would you like to help me with my models?"

Marie's brow wrinkles in confusion. "What models?"

"Come with me."

The barn is close and stuffy, and Quasimodo leaves the doors open to let the fresh air in from outside. As Marie follows him up the ladder to the hayloft, Arnaud's book under her arm, her curiosity is almost palpable. Once he reaches the top, he takes her hand to assist her the rest of the way before shyly retreating, and she is about to thank him when she suddenly stops short. And then she inhales sharply.

At the very center of the loft is a bale of hay. On top of this is a long, flat piece of wood. And on top of this, still unfinished, is the Lefévre farm in miniature.

Marie sets the book down and circles the table slowly, her eyes wide in amazement. She takes in the farmhouse, the barn, and the chicken coop. She marvels at the well, its bucket no bigger than a thimble. She gasps at the detail in the little wooden livestock. She laughs at the replica of her uncle, with its skinny legs, and smiles as she examines the minute freckles on her own tiny counterpart.

And then she steps back, staring at it all in silent contemplation.

"Quasi," she says at last, "this is amazing. I mean, really amazing. Don't get me wrong, I love Gabe's boat, but it's nothing compared to this. You're the most talented person I've ever known. But..." She looks up at him, and he is surprised by her expression. It's almost sad.

"But what?" he asks, worried that he's somehow displeased her. "What's wrong?"

"But... what about you?"

He frowns. "I don't know what you mean."

The girl gestures with her arm at the models on the makeshift table. "I don't see a little wooden Quasimodo anywhere."

Abruptly he realizes what she means, and he suddenly feels very uncomfortable. "Oh, well..." He clears his throat awkwardly. To his embarrassment, he finds himself beginning to stammer. "I... I-I don't... I, I mean, I'm not... part of the family, I just...work here, that's all, i-it's not like I'm—"

Mercifully, Marie stops his babbling with a small hand on his arm. She stares at him incredulously for what seems like forever. "Not part of the family? Quasimodo..." She sighs and shakes her head. "I thought you knew by now."

He swallows. "Knew what?"

"That's exactly what you are."

At her words, Quasimodo's breath hitches in his throat. For a moment, he can't even bring himself to speak. "I... I've never been part of a family before," he finally whispers hoarsely.

Marie smiles. "Well, now you are," she replies, giving his arm a light, playful shove. "So get used to it."

Overcome with gratitude, he seizes her hand and kisses it. Her face glows bright red, and he immediately regrets his thoughtless action. "I'm— I'm sorry," he says, hastily dropping her hand.

She quickly grabs his own massive hand in hers and gives it a tight squeeze. Her voice is thick when she replies. "Don't be. Sweet boy."

And then, just as quickly, she releases his hand and steps back with a light laugh. Quasimodo watches, perplexed by her odd behavior, as she turns and picks up Arnaud's book. "I think I'll take this back to the house. I wouldn't want it to get damaged. Be right back."

"All... right," he says slowly, following the girl down the ladder with his eyes, before shaking his head in confusion.

* * *

Stepping off the ladder, Marie walks very calmly through the barn and out the door. With the book tucked securely under her arm, she makes her way across the barnyard and into the house.

Once inside, she slowly sets the book down on the kitchen table and releases the breath she has been holding for over a minute. Sinking back against the table, she passes a hand over her burning face.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it," she whispers over and over to herself, trying to calm her pounding heart.

* * *

**Goodness, if only I always wrote that fast. Ah well. Anyway, I enjoyed writing this chapter immensely. I hope you liked it. Why not leave a review and let me know? ;)**

**Incidentally, those medieval bestiaries **_**are**_** hilarious.**

**R.R.**

*** "With One's Family"**


	6. Si Jeunesse Savait

**Oh my. I was not expecting my sappy little story to get any attention at all. Thank you all so much for your reviews. It means so much to me. ^_^**

**I claim no ownership of the novel or movie on which this is based.**

* * *

Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter Six: Si Jeunesse Savait*

_"How I wish you could see the potential_

_The potential of you and me_

_It's like a book, elegantly bound, but_

_In a language that you can't read"_

_— "I Will Possess Your Heart", Death Cab for Cutie_

If Arnaud is being completely honest with himself, he can't say that he is exactly thrilled with these recent developments.

It's not because of the way Quasimodo looks. Some people — he would venture to say nearly _all_ — would be put off by the boy's appearance, but Arnaud is not in the least bothered by it, and in fact, within the first few days after making his acquaintance, he had all but ceased to notice it. Now and then it dawns on him, with a sort of mild surprise, that he is not built like other men. But after all, what of it? It is no fault of the lad's that he was born different. He is still a human being, and one of God's creations.

If anything, he is disgusted with the so-called normal people who speak of him with horror and revulsion. Arnaud is no fool; he has heard the gossip in the village about the Lefévres' "pet hunchback". More than once, he has been asked by some _concerned_ neighbor if he was really following the course of wisdom by allowing Quasimodo to live on their farm, in such close proximity to his adopted children. Even the parish priest admonished him severely for risking his household's eternal life by subjecting them to such evil.

Never one to cause trouble, Arnaud simply smiled pleasantly and thanked him for his concern. But he was tempted to ask the man if he'd ever read the parable of the good Samaritan.

By now, fortunately, most of the malicious gossip has subsided. Arnaud is aware that, being a former scholar in a township of largely uneducated farmers and craftsmen, he has always been viewed as slightly odd. The majority of the villagers have come to a general agreement that this is merely the latest manifestation of his eccentricity.

No, it is not Quasimodo's appearance which concerns him. Nor is it his character. There is no doubting that he has a good heart; out of all the young men in and around the village of La Courtille, he would venture to say that Quasimodo is the kindest by far. Indeed, he is head and shoulders above the rest when it comes to good manners and common courtesy. He is respectful and obedient to Arnaud and Bernard, and he is never rude or brusque with young Gabriel, even when he's being a colossal pain in the neck. Arnaud is not entirely certain if he has even heard him raise his voice.

Nor does the problem lie in Quasimodo's past. During his journeys into Paris, Arnaud has made discreet inquiries to several reliable sources concerning the young man's history, and he fancies he knows most of the salient facts. What he has learned nearly broke his heart. Abandoned on Quasimodo Sunday inside the entrance of Notre-Dame, in the bed reserved for foundling children, the little misshapen boy was adopted by a young priest named Claude Frollo. He taught him to speak, to read, and to write, but by all accounts was more of a stern master than a father figure. He was already raising his own younger brother, to whom he was ardently devoted. And yet no one could have loved Frollo more than Quasimodo did.

It wasn't until the incident with the gypsy girl that their strange relationship was truly put to the test. Some claim that Frollo, then the archdeacon of Josas, became obsessed with the pretty dancer, whose name no one seems to know or to remember. Others say that he simply wished her dead. All Arnaud knows for sure is that he got his wish, despite Quasimodo's efforts to protect her. On the same day the girl was hanged, the archdeacon fell from the north tower of the cathedral to his death. Whether he jumped or whether he was pushed, no one can say for certain.

But there is one point on which every man, woman and child in the vicinity of Notre-Dame seems to agree: after that day, the bellringer vanished, never to be seen again. The bells have not sounded the same ever since.

If anyone can understand the lingering, gnawing effects of grief, Arnaud can. Though there are perhaps greater losses, there are none quite like the loss of a twin. There is a connection between twins that surpasses that of other siblings — a connection which goes back to the womb. When René Lefévre died, Arnaud felt as though part of his mind, his heart, his entire _being_ died along with him. If he hadn't had his brother's children to care for, Arnaud might have wallowed indefinitely in his own despair. As it is, those kids are his life.

Yes, he understands grief. Perhaps better than most. If Quasimodo ever decides to unburden himself, Arnaud will be there to listen, and above all, not to judge. That is not his job. And thank goodness for that.

The _real_ problem is the way Marie looks at him.

Arnaud entertained notions, when they first took him in, that Marie might be developing an attachment to Quasimodo. But he almost immediately dismissed them. Like her father — and her uncle, for that matter — she has always been a sympathetic soul, and no doubt she felt pity and concern for the poor disfigured boy and wished to help him. He had been so alone, so hopeless.

But the months have passed, and summer has slowly begun to fade into autumn, and with it Quasimodo's black despair seems to have faded as well. He no longer flinches when someone approaches him, and he is more likely to look them in the eye. He smiles more, and laughs, and plays games with Gabriel. He even seems to stand a little straighter, despite the curvature of his spine. He is almost like a different person.

And Marie dotes on him more than ever.

Arnaud's first suspicions began some time in August, after the sheep had been shorn. They were all gathered in the barnyard, and the men of the house were showing Quasimodo how to dye the newly-washed fleece, while Marie sat nearby with a spindle and a quantity of wool that had already been dyed a deep orange. She was busy spinning it into yarn. Or at least, was appearing to look busy.

She was staring off into space and smiling at nothing in particular, and Arnaud observed that she seemed to be wrapping the yarn around her finger instead of the spindle. When he brought it to her attention, she blushed and laughed and claimed to be distracted. He couldn't help but notice that her eyes flicked toward Quasimodo when she said this.

Resisting the urge to raise his eyebrows, Arnaud decided to perform a small experiment. "You look nice today, Marie," he said pleasantly.

"Thank you, Uncle," she replied, clearly somewhat surprised by the compliment, which had been prompted by nothing whatsoever.

"Quasimodo, don't you think Marie is looking very pretty today?"

The young man looked up through his curtain of bright red hair. He seemed slightly taken aback as well. "Oh... yes, Arnaud," he said after a moment in his usual shy way. "She always looks pretty."

Marie's blush deepened, and she quickly looked down at her lap, returning to her work with sudden intense interest. But her smile didn't fade.

Since then, Arnaud has been watching her behavior closely, and what he has seen has afforded him no small amount of concern. She is absent-minded, preoccupied. She neglects her responsibilities around the farm, or rather forgets about them entirely unless she is forcefully reminded of them. He's noticed that she has lost weight, too; although whether this is a result of losing her baby fat or because she's not eating, he can't be certain. And she can't seem to keep that silly smile off her face.

Arnaud is no expert, but he's been around long enough to know the signs by now. The girl is positively smitten.

In his defense, he couldn't have seen it coming. Marie has never been one to swoon over every strapping young man she saw. Unlike her friend Joséphine, she never prattles endlessly about what sort of man she will marry, or how many children they will have. She is simply content to do her chores and keep her little brother out of trouble. There was that whole business with the Dupont boy, but in the end nothing came of it. Besides, that was never even her idea to begin with.

But Quasimodo, of all people? Of course, Arnaud is in no way disappointed with her choice. Anyone meeting Marie's standards would have to be an uncommonly kind person, and Quasimodo is most decidedly that. There is not a cruel or selfish bone in his body. Arnaud has seen the stares of the other young men when his niece accompanies him to the butcher's shop or the candle seller's. There is only one thing on their mind when they look at her. But in stark contrast to their shameless appraisal, Quasimodo only looks on Marie with gratitude and profound respect.

And that, Arnaud supposes, is the root of the problem. The boy has no idea of her feelings for him.

Then again, how _could_ he know? How could he possibly recognize the symptoms? It's not as if he ever had girls lined up outside the belltower. It would probably never even occur to him that any member of the fairer sex could ever think of him with pounding heart and racing pulse. The poor kid has no idea what it is like to be loved.

And even if he _did_ know... What then? How on earth would he react? Would he reciprocate, or would he withdraw back into his shell out of pure terror? Or would he even be capable of loving another, having already given his heart to a dead girl?

Arnaud shakes his head as he strolls pensively through the village on his way to the shoemaker's. He can't begin to decide what to do about the situation, if anything. He was never given any preparation for such a contingency. If only Marie's mother were here. She would know what to do.

He knocks on the door of the thatched-roof cottage, and an answering yell from within bids him entry, accompanied by the sound of hammering. Arnaud cautiously steps inside, avoiding the rusted tools and the strips of dried, oiled leather which hang from the rafters. In a dark corner, a toothless old dog eyes him curiously before settling its head once again on its nest of dingy rags.

At a cluttered work table, a stout man with a red face is busy hammering away at a piece of leather, in order to make it soft and supple. He looks up briefly and gives him a cursory nod. "Afternoon, Arnaud."

"Hello, Gervais," Arnaud replies courteously. There is a short silence, during which the dog rises laboriously to its feet to sniff at his boots — the handiwork of its master. "How is your wife?" he finally inquires solicitously.

His wife, Arnaud knows, is nearly half the man's age, and was promised to him on the day she was born. That sort of thing is fairly common in these small towns.

Gervais Fournier gives him a long-suffering look across the work table. "Headstrong as ever." He pauses to pick something out of his ear. Arnaud tries not to cringe. "And your family fares well?" he asks in a deceptively neutral tone. "No... unpleasant developments, I hope?"

The man could not be less subtle if he had made the sign of the cross. "No, no, nothing of the kind," Arnaud says with a bland smile. "We're all getting along splendidly, to tell you the truth. Terribly busy, of course, but you know what Horace says. _Nil sine magno vita labore dedit mortalibus._" Gervais stares at him blankly. "'Life grants nothing to us mortals without hard work,'" he clarifies.

"Ah, yes, yes. Right." The cobbler nods, though clearly he has no clue what Arnaud is talking about. He puts down his hammer and wipes his brow with the back of his hand. "I can probably guess why you're here, Arnaud. The answer is no. The shoes aren't ready yet."

Arnaud nods calmly, concealing his annoyance, though it has already been three weeks. "I see."

"And another thing." He clears his throat uncomfortably. "They're going to cost a bit more than I estimated. Twice as much, in fact."

"What?" Arnaud can hardly believe what he's hearing. "_Eight_ deniers? You've got to be kidding!"

Gervais shrugs helplessly. "I don't know what to tell you. I've never experienced this much difficulty over one pair of lousy shoes. For one thing, I had to come all the way out to your farm just to get the measurements—"

"We don't live _that_ far away, Gervais," Arnaud interrupts, frowning. "Besides, you know what would've happened if I'd brought him here. The entire village would have dropped everything, just to come and gawk at him. The poor boy's had to endure enough persecution as it is."

"And that's _my_ fault?" The cobbler shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but I have to make a living, too. I have a wife now, Arnaud. You know that." He sighs impatiently. "It's hard enough as it is to get the necessary materials. But have you ever _seen_ feet like that? Not only are they enormous, but they're the strangest shape, like... like the paws of a bear, or..." He trails off, at a loss for words.

"It's not his fault," Arnaud says in a low voice. "He's a good lad."

Gervais shoves a hand distractedly through his coarse brown hair. "I know you think you're doing a good deed by giving him a place to stay," he murmurs, gazing down at his work table. "And I admire your generosity, I really do. Your heart is in the right place, Arnaud. But..." He takes a deep breath. "That... man, that Quasimodo. He's not God's work. Whatever he _is_, he was never meant to be. It would've been better, for his sake, if he had never been born."

_Marie would disagree with you,_ he thinks to himself, silently choking down his anger and indignation.

"Now, really, Gervais," says a soft voice. Arnaud looks up to see the thin, waif-like form of the cobbler's young bride emerging from the room in back. "You shouldn't say things like that."

"But it's true!"

"No, it isn't, and you know it. Hello, Arnaud," she adds, an amused smile on her pale face.

"Hello, Martine," he replies cordially.

Gervais, on the other hand, is not amused. "How many times do I have to tell you, Martine, not to contradict me in front of my customers?" he growls.

She pats his hand in sympathy. "I know, and I forget every time." She sighs dramatically. "How _do_ you put up with me?"

The cobbler huffs irritably for a moment, but from the tender way he squeezes her slender hand, it is obvious that theirs is more than a mere marriage of convenience.

"Don't worry, Arnaud," she says breezily. "Gervais will be finished with the shoes very soon. And don't concern yourself over the price. Your family's business is so important to us, I'm sure that we can arrange some kind of discount."

Gervais's eyes bulge. "Martine!"

"Oh, calm down. Your eyes are going to stick that way. Is that all right, Arnaud?"

Arnaud finds it is all he can do to keep a straight face. "That sounds more than adequate," he manages to reply.

"Wonderful." The girl — for she is only a few years older than his niece — smiles pleasantly. "Well, I'd better get to work on starting supper. Give our love to your family. _All_ of them," she adds pointedly.

He returns her smile. "I will, madame. And God be with you and yours." And what's more, he actually means it.

Martine trickles out of the room, and Gervais shoots a penitent glance up at Arnaud. "I'll... finish the shoes for five deniers," he mumbles at length.

"That's very decent of you," Arnaud replies simply.

Suddenly, the cobbler stands up and begins speaking rapidly, his face burning in embarrassment. "Martine is right. I had no right to say what I did. If you say he's a good lad, then I believe you. Your family has been good to us, and we owe you a lot. If you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask."

To say that Arnaud is touched would be an understatement. Reaching out across the work table, he grasps the cobbler's rough hand in his. "Likewise, my friend," he says sincerely.

As he turns to leave, Gervais gives an awkward cough. "Forgive me. It's probably none of my business, but naturally my wife and I are a little concerned."

"Yes?"

He clears his throat. "We were wondering... what you were planning to do about Marie."

Arnaud stares at him for a long while. "What?"

"I know something's different. She doesn't look where she's going. Just the other day, she nearly walked right into the wine merchant's cart. It's like her head is somewhere else." He hesitates, before adding, "The only time I've seen a girl that distracted is when my sister was in love with the blacksmith's son."

For once, Arnaud finds himself at a loss for words. "...Oh?" he replies weakly.

Gervais sighs in frustration. "Listen. I'm sure it's not my place to bring it up. But I've known Marie since she was a baby, and I know all about the arrangement that your brother made when she was born." He leans over the table, his voice low. "What happens if the Duponts come back?"

There is a long silence. Arnaud pinches the bridge of his hawk-like nose between his fingers.

"I honestly have no idea," he says at last.

* * *

_I can't take this anymore,_ Marie thinks to herself.

She can't eat. She can't sleep. Her stomach is twisted into knots and she feels at any minute that her heart might burst. She wonders, not for the first time, how anyone manages to survive this intolerable condition.

Marie has always been a fairly level-headed girl. She doesn't allow herself to be swept away by her emotions; indeed, in her opinion, there is little to be gained by it. It always seemed like such a tumultuous existence, being constantly pulled in a thousand different directions by every passing mood. If she could avoid it herself whenever possible, then so much the better.

But as reluctant as she is to admit it, some feelings are more difficult to ignore than others. And her feelings now have become impossible to ignore.

She tried, at first. Oh, Lord, did she ever try. She tried desperately to ignore the ridiculous little flutter her heart would give whenever Quasimodo was near, as well as the shortness of breath which would suddenly afflict her every time he laughed. She tried to ignore the maddening way she would find excuses to touch his hand or his arm. She even tried to ignore the fact that she looked forward to every time he needed a haircut, just to be able to run those soft red strands through her fingers.

She suspects she might be crazy.

She can't understand how this could have happened. She's never felt this way about anyone, and it isn't for lack of choices. There are plenty of young men in the village, several of whom have shown interest in her at one time or another. She has just never been interested in _them_. They're all so immature, shallow, superficial. Frankly, she could never see the appeal. In her experience, boys have always simply a necessary evil, to be endured with good humor and lots of patience.

That is, until Quasimodo came along, and turned all of her preconceptions upside-down.

He is like no one Marie has ever met. Unlike all the boys of Marie's acquaintance, who are crass, boorish, and disrespectful, Quasimodo is gentle, kind, and considerate. He never gives a thought to his own comfort, but is happy to assist others. It was not long after meeting him that Marie forgot that most people found him frightening. His potentially fearsome appearance stands in direct contradistinction to his sweet-tempered disposition. He's just... unique. In every single way.

She sighs, resting her elbows on the kitchen table. Yes, she has definitely lost it.

It is early evening. Supper is over, and she is clearing away the remains of the shortcrust pies she made. As she sets aside the uneaten crusts for the chickens, the long wooden rod which she uses as a rolling pin begins to move toward the edge of the table. She makes a belated grab for it, but she's too slow. Cleverly eluding her grasp, it rolls off and hits the floor with a clatter.

Suppressing a growl of annoyance at her own inattentiveness, Marie kneels down to look for it. Somehow, it has rolled all the way across the kitchen, where it now rests against the door. As she stoops to pick it up, the door suddenly swings inward, connecting with the side of her head and sending her crashing to the floor.

Despite the pounding in her ears, along with a dreadful certainty that her brain has turned to jelly inside her skull, she is dimly aware of someone speaking in a panicked voice.

"Marie! Oh, God, Mariette, I'm so sorry. Are you all right? Can you stand? Wait, don't move. I'll help you up."

"Mmmallright," she mumbles, blinking owlishly.

Though of course she was prepared for it, she finds herself surprised as she is lifted off the floor like a ragdoll by a pair of absurdly strong arms and then set down carefully on her feet. She sways for a moment, her head still pounding, and the arms wind around her waist and hold her steady, preventing her from toppling over again.

It is a singularly pleasant sensation, she thinks hazily, standing in that powerful and yet impossibly gentle embrace. While her brain is undeniably somewhere else entirely, there is still a part of her that can feel the muscles and sinews in those arms, the warmth of those enormous callused hands. She feels safe, content. Unconsciously, she leans closer. She can't seem to get enough of it.

She hears, or rather feels, a sharp intake of breath. "...Marie?" a voice says very nervously into her ear.

She snuggles further into the warmth, burying her face in it. "Hmmm?"

Then her eyes snap open. She knows that voice.

In an instant Marie extricates herself from Quasimodo's grasp, her face burning in embarrassment. "Oh, my goodness. Quasimodo. Wow. Oh, wow. I'm really sorry about that." A slightly giddy laugh escapes her, and she covers her mouth. She can hardly believe what she just did. What in heaven's name is the matter with her?

Quasimodo is looking strangely at her, as if possibly concerned for her mental health. "Don't worry about it," he says awkwardly, a faint pink tinging his own pale face. "You're the one who deserves an apology. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. Are you all right?"

Gingerly, Marie reaches up and feels the small bump that has already formed on her skull. It is still painful, but certainly not serious. "I'm pretty sure I'll live," she says with a crooked smile.

As Quasimodo bends down to retrieve the delinquent rolling pin, Marie finds herself staring at his powerfully built forearms. It isn't until he places the object in her hands that she realizes she is still smiling. Very stupidly.

"Thank you," she blurts, quickly turning and placing the rolling pin on the table to hide her glowing cheeks. She clears her throat. "Was there something you needed, Quasi?" she asks as casually as she can manage.

"Umm... Yes. Or rather, no, actually. There's something I wanted to show you."

Her heart is beating annoyingly loud in her ears. "Oh," she says calmly.

She follows him outside, and a breeze stirs her hair, making her shiver slightly. It is mid-September, and the air has that cold, crisp feeling, a reminder that autumn has arrived in earnest. Indeed, the leaves on the trees have already begun to turn. It is Marie's favorite time of year.

As she walks beside Quasimodo, she expects him to head straight for the barn, where he has been intermittently been working on the miniature model of the farm. But instead, he continues walking in the direction of the orchard. _What on earth could he want to show me out here?_ she wonders.

The light is starting to fade, and she has to look down at her feet to avoid tripping on the uneven ground. She is so absorbed in this activity that she doesn't look up until Quasimodo's large hand on her shoulder brings her to a halt.

Curious, she looks up. As she does so, she feels a grin spread over her face.

Directly in front of her, the old oak tree stands looming overhead, its branches reaching toward the darkening sky. The brisk autumn breeze rushes through the rich, reddish-brown leaves, making a quiet rustling sound. And from its lowest branch hangs a wooden swing attached by a pair of ropes.

Marie shoots a quick, mischievous glance at Quasimodo. "You didn't."

He smiles.

With a delighted laugh, Marie dashes over to the swing and sits down on it. The texture of the rope is slightly rough against her palms, but not painful. As she attempts to move the swing back and forth by extending her legs and then withdrawing them, she only succeeds in causing it to swing in a diagonal line. But she doesn't care. Frankly, she can't understand why they didn't build a swing years ago.

Chuckling softly to himself, Quasimodo comes over and obligingly straightens her out. "Do you like it?" he asks shyly.

There's that flutter again. "I love it," she tells him, a little breathlessly. "It's absolutely perfect."

By a wordless mutual agreement, he moves behind her and begins to push. Her grip tightens on the ropes as once again she feels the perfectly chaste touch of his strong hands on her back. But then, despite that nervous excitement which won't seem to go away, she starts to enjoy herself. She smiles as the wind moves across her face and disarranges her already unkempt hair.

After a while, Marie is content to simply sit there, gazing out at the fields as the sun slowly disappears over the horizon. Quasimodo stands behind her, his hands loosely gripping the ropes, lost in silent contemplation. She can feel the warmth of his proximity, and it makes her a little light-headed. As she cranes her neck to look up at him, she can't help but admire the way the evening sunset makes his hair blaze like fire, and the way his eyes look when he's deep in thought, and above all that air of quiet dignity surrounding him. She loves it.

She loves it.

She loves _him_.

Oh, God.

He notices her staring up at him, and quickly ducks his head, as if to escape her gaze. "Are you ready to go inside yet?" he asks.

_Can't I just stay here with you forever?_ "No, not yet," she says with a forced smile. "It's so nice out here. Let's stay just a little while longer."

He nods in easy agreement, and they lapse again into silence — comfortable on one end, turbulent and chaotic on the other.

* * *

**Oh boy. The plot, she thickens! I know this didn't end too well, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter anyway. If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty frustrated too. Hey, why don't you check out my little drawing of Quasimodo and Marie? It's on my deviantART page, the link to which is in my profile. And don't forget to review! ;)**

**R.R.**

*** "If Youth Only Knew"**


	7. Les Grandes Douleurs Son Muettes

**Longest chapter yet! As always, a thousand thanks to my lovely reviewers. I apologize for the delay, and hope you enjoy this chapter. This one in particular is one of the biggest reasons why this story is rated T.**

**I claim no ownership of the novel or movie on which this is based.**

* * *

Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter Seven: Les Grandes Douleurs Son Muettes*

_"It wasn't open, but somehow you let yourself in_

_Closed off and broken, I never wanted to go there again_

_I wasn't waiting, but you came at just the right time_

_Weary and wasted, I never knew I could feel so alive"_

_— "7 Keys", Aqualung_

Gabriel can't decide who is the bigger idiot: his sister, for falling head-over-heels for the ugliest man in Paris, or Quasimodo, for not falling for _her_.

Any fool can see it. He's not yet twelve years old, and even he can see that Marie is hopelessly in love with the unfortunate-looking young man. She stares at him with a sickeningly goofy, adoring look plastered on her face, and she can't focus on a single blasted thing. She can barely make it across the barnyard without tripping over her own feet. Granted, she has always been a little odd — she takes after their uncle that way — but this is on a whole other level of strangeness altogether.

He knows he shouldn't surprised; Marie always did insist on being different from other girls. But that never seemed to matter. As distasteful as it is for Gabriel to contemplate, he's well aware that his sister is quite pretty, in a simple, unaffected sort of way. She could have all the older boys in the village eating out of the palm of her hand if she wanted to, and probably some of the men, as well. Why did she have to pick Quasimodo?

It's not that Gabriel doesn't like him, or doesn't think he is good enough for Marie. It's true that he was somewhat uneasy around him at first, but that was before he realized that appearance has no bearing on character, and that Quasimodo was actually a very nice person. Being far too young when his parents died, Gabriel has no idea what their feelings on the subject would be, but he suspects that if they had any control over whom their daughter was going to marry, they would want someone who would treat her with kindness. Someone who would listen to her, and respect her feelings. Someone exactly like Quasimodo.

But Quasimodo himself? That's another matter.

Even at his young age, Gabriel has learned that the blindest people are the ones who only see what they want to see. People want Quasimodo to be a hideous demon from Hell, because that's more exciting than a poor, disfigured orphan. And so that's precisely what they see when they look at him. They don't want to believe that there might be a gentle, sensitive soul inside that misshapen form, because they don't want to be wrong.

And if Quasimodo and Marie ever _did_ get married, people would forget that his sister has always been a good, moral, upright person, without a single stain on her character. They would see a madwoman... or worse, a witch, wed to the Devil himself. Why do people have to be so stupid?

At the moment, however, that possibility is appearing less and less likely. Quasimodo may be very nice, but apparently, he's dumb as a rock.

Anyone else would have noticed Marie's odd behavior long ago, but the boy doesn't have the first clue. Even Gabriel, whose stomach turns at the very thought of romance, realized over a month ago what all those lovesick sighs signified. If Quasimodo hasn't figured it out by now, he may never see the light.

Who knows? He may just think she has bats in _her_ belfry.

Still, he's not sure which is worse: the potential suffering she might endure from the scorn of the townspeople, or the suffering she is currently enduring in silence as a result of her unrequited feelings. As annoying and bossy she can be, Gabriel doesn't like to see his sister in pain.

He might possibly just have to take matters into his own hands.

Speaking of hands, his own are freezing at the moment. After Marie showed him the swing Quasimodo made, he immediately decided that they should build a tree house as well. But it's been slow going; the farm is a busy place at this time of year, and there are always chores to be done, in addition to all of the preparations which need to be made for the coming of winter. Free time is a precious commodity, and by the time Gabriel has attended to all of his other responsibilities, he's usually too tired to do anything else.

It's nearly finished, though. They've all been working on it, off and on, for nearly a month, with the exception of Bernard, who said he'd break his neck if he tried climbing a tree at his age. Thanks to the enormous size of the old oak's canopy and the wide spread of its branches, they were able to build the house large enough to easily accommodate three people. Like the farmhouse, the walls are half-timbred, with mud-and-straw plaster between the beams, and two little windows.

All that is left is to complete the thatched roof, which is the focus of Gabriel's current occupation. There is a decided chill, and as he blows on his hands to warm them, he can see his own breath billowing into the air like the smoke of a contented dragon. Neat.

"Be careful!" Marie calls up to him for about the hundredth time today.

He rolls his eyes and ignores her. As if he would intentionally _not_ be careful.

Down on the ground, Marie has set a basket of bread, cheese, and fruit out, in case "her boys", as she calls Gabriel and Quasimodo, should get hungry while they're working. As she sits in the swing, darning a pair of Gabriel's hose, she hums a little _chanson_ under her breath, apparently oblivious to the straw that is falling into her hair from above.

A few branches away, Quasimodo likewise is occupied in finishing the roof of the tree house. Now and then, however, he keeps stealing little glances at something over Gabriel's shoulder. Curious, he twists around to see what has captured the young man's attention.

And then he shivers. _Montfaucon._

At this height, it's hard to forget that that disquieting structure, all alone on that hill and surrounded by a constant cloud of crows, is only a thousand feet from the Paris walls, and only a few hundred yards from the edge of La Courtille. Gabriel swallows, remembering his last visit to the gibbet. He'd been such a coward. Sure, he had been brave enough to walk right up to it; he'd almost managed to reach out and touch it. But at the first hint of danger, he'd bolted like a hare. If he hadn't encountered Marie, he would have just kept running.

_Pathetic._

"I hate that place," he mutters under his breath.

Quasimodo looks at him, puzzled. "What?" His hearing isn't what you would call acute.

He jerks his chin in the direction of the gibbet. "Montfaucon. I hate it. Why did they have to build it right there, where everyone has to look at it? For that matter, why'd they have to build it at all?" He shakes his head. "It's disgusting. Whose idea was it to string the dead up like a bunch of skinned rabbits, anyway?"

"I don't know," Quasimodo says in a low voice, his eyes far away.

For a long moment, neither of them speak, each afraid to say what they're thinking. Finally Gabriel sighs. "If Laurent and his stupid brother and his stupid friend hadn't dared me, I never would've gone up there. I just had to prove to them that I wasn't afraid. But I really was." He swallows and looks down, picking at his fingernails. "And when I heard you, I just... took off running. If Marie hadn't been there, if she... hadn't been brave enough to go inside..." He falls silent, too ashamed to finish.

"But if you hadn't gone there with the other boys," Quasimodo replies quietly, "Marie would never have come looking for you."

The boy shrugs, unconvinced. "I guess..."

There is another long silence, and this time, Quasimodo is the one to break it. "I'm glad you were there, Gabe," he says kindly.

Gabriel looks up at him sharply, and immediately he has to look away — not because Quasimodo is ugly, but because the sincere gratitude in his face is too much to bear.

"Yeah, me too," he says with some difficulty. He clears his throat and adds, as an afterthought, "So is Marie."

Quasimodo looks down at the girl, still humming away to herself, and smiles faintly. "Marie is far too good to me."

_Gee, I wonder why,_ Gabriel thinks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. And then suddenly he can't help blurting it out. "You _do_ know why, don't you?"

"Why what?"

"Why she's so nice to you, why her face turns red whenever you talk to her. Why she's become a hopeless basketcase. Haven't you ever wondered _why?_"

The young man frowns at him, confused. "I... I don't understand what you mean."

Gabriel throws up his hands in frustration. "Don't you get it?" he exclaims. Or rather, he is about to exclaim, when the act of raising his hands causes him to overbalance. He starts to pinwheel his arms in panic, trying desperately to stay upright.

For a moment he thinks he might succeed. And then he feels himself falling through the air.

He reaches out blindly, trying to grab anything to halt or slow his descent. He feels a sharp pain in his left elbow as it collides with a tree branch. In some distant part of his brain, he is aware that his sister is screaming, but he can't tell where it is coming from. He can't even tell which way is up.

And then, strangely, he is not falling anymore. Slowly, he forces his eyes to open — he didn't even realize they were closed — and he finds himself hanging in the air about a dozen feet from the ground, his leg held securely in an iron-like grip. He strains to look up, and sees Quasimodo looking back down at him.

"Are you all right?" he asks anxiously.

"Wow, you're fast," Gabriel says breathlessly, the blood rushing swiftly to his head.

After helping him right himself, Quasimodo carefully lowers him to the ground, where he collapses onto the grass, still light-headed. Instantly Marie is there, hugging and scolding and pressing kisses into his messy dark hair. When she finally releases him, he sees a small red smear where his head was resting against her apron.

"Hey, I'm bleeding," he says in surprise.

"It's just a scratch," she assures him, dabbing gently at his forehead with a handkerchief. "Thank God that's the worst of your injuries." She lifts the handkerchief up to her eyes. "Thank God for Quasimodo."

The young man shrugs awkwardly. "It was nothing," he says shyly.

Marie gapes openly at him. "Nothing?" she repeats in disbelief. "Gabe could've died. You saved his life, Quasi. That's not nothing, that's... that's _everything_."

He blushes and looks down at his hands. "I couldn't just let him fall," he murmurs.

As Gabriel watches, Marie's lower lip begins to tremble. _Here it comes,_ he thinks.

"Oh, Quasi," she exclaims brokenly, throwing her arms around him.

Not surprisingly, Quasimodo freezes like a startled deer, but he doesn't pull away. With an expression of the utmost shock, he stares at the girl, her tear-streaked face pressing into the fabric of his tunic, before something — _finally!_ — seems to click in his brain. Slowly, he wraps his huge arms around her and draws her close, holding her gently and whispering inaudibly into her thick auburn hair. Her arms tighten their grip around his crooked back, and in response, his eyes slip shut in pure, unadulterated bliss.

Despite the bruise on his arm, the cut on his forehead, and the revolting sight in front of him, Gabriel smiles. Not exactly the method he would have preferred to attain these results, he has to admit.

But close enough.

* * *

Marie can't sleep.

She can't help it. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Gabriel falling. She knows the actual incident could not have lasted more than a couple of seconds, but to her, it was an eternity. She had plenty of time to think about what she would do if, on reaching the ground, he did not get up again. What she would do if she lost, in addition to both her parents, her only brother as well. Whether she would ever recover from it, or whether she would simply go mad.

And then, as she replays it in her mind, she sees Quasimodo swooping in at the last second and saving him — a guardian angel in disguise. Her dear, humble, precious Quasimodo. And here she didn't think she could possibly love him more.

As she stares up at the vaulted ceiling of her attic room, an involuntary shiver sweeps through her as she recalls the way it felt when he held her. Anyone else, no doubt, would have been terrified to find themselves at the mercy of those shockingly powerful arms; the man could easily break someone's spine if he had a mind to do so. But Marie was in heaven. She'll never forget the warmth and safety she felt in his embrace, or the words of comfort he whispered so tenderly in her ear.

_"I promise, as long as I am alive, I'll never let anything happen to Gabe. Or to you."_

At that moment, it almost seemed like... No. She dares not think it. It couldn't be true.

Like he cared for her.

She turns over abruptly on her bed and hits the pillow with her fist. This is ridiculous. Why can't she just ask him? What's stopping her? How strange would it really be, anyway? She would be putting her heart on the line, and risking his rejection, but at least she would know. Anything has to be better than _not knowing_.

Suddenly she realizes that she will not be able to rest until she does.

Muttering a very unladylike curse under her breath, Marie swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands up, shivering in her chemise. Retrieving her heavy cloak from the back of the chair, she wraps it tightly around her. As an afterthought, she grabs the candle holder from the table. She starts to pull on her shoes, but decides that they would make too much noise. Trying not to dwell on the incredible stupidity of what she is about to do, she lets down the trap door as quietly as she can and descends the ladder into the darkness below.

She tiptoes down the narrow stairs in her stockinged feet and maneuvers her way through the kitchen, mostly by memory. Feeling her way over to the hearth, she finds the tongs and lights the candle with one of the faintly glowing embers. Shielding the light from the candle with her hand, she steals out the door and into the barnyard. The night is clear and cloudless, and the light from the moon and stars outlines everything in silver. Taking a deep breath, she marches straight toward the barn.

In the barn, the sheep turn and stare at her sleepily, and André's ears twitch in annoyance at being woken, but her presence attracts no other attention. Odd.

"Quasi?" she whispers, then remembers he can't hear very well. She calls to him again, a bit louder.

Still no answer.

Frowning, she sets the candle holder carefully on a stool and climbs the ladder to the hayloft. The wood is rough and splintered, and she feels a sudden sharp pain as a sliver enters the ball of her left foot. Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she forces herself to climb the rest of the way up.

The loft is empty.

For a brief, terror-filled moment, Marie fears the worst. But no, Quasimodo can't have gone forever. His spare sets of clothes are still here, and he clearly has been working on his model of the farm very recently; the brushes and pots of paint are still spread out on the table. He didn't even take his candle. Wincing from the pain in her foot, she limps over and bends down to feel his straw-filled mattress. Still warm. She must have just missed him.

But where is he?

After lingering for a moment over the warmth created by her beloved's body and thinking several things she probably shouldn't be thinking, she turns and climbs back down the ladder.

As she steps back outside, she stands there in the barnyard, blocking the candle from the wind with her hand and wondering what she should do. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of the old oak, with its unfinished tree house, its silhouette black against the deep cobalt blue of the night sky.

It's worth a shot.

Cringing with every step, she makes her way across the orchard. As she walks, the dew from the grass seeps through her stockings, making her shiver. Finally, when she feels she can't endure another step, she comes to a halt under the oak tree and cranes her neck upward.

"Quasimodo?" she calls, her voice much shakier than she would like. "Are you up there?"

She hears a small gasp from somewhere above her, and her heart leaps at the sound. There is a creak of floorboards, and then his head appears in the small doorway, his eyes wide in surprise. "Marie? What are you doing out here?"

_Freezing to death,_ she thinks, her teeth chattering. "Couldn't sleep," she replies, trying to balance her weight on her uninjured foot. "I came to the barn to see if you were awake, but you weren't there. I was worried." _Oh, and I love you more than anything. But that's pretty much it._

"I couldn't sleep, either," he says pensively, unaware of her cold and discomfort. "I tried working on my models, but I couldn't focus. It was like my mind was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't understand what it was saying." He sighs, as if dissatisfied with his own explanation. "So I came out here. For some reason, the farther I am from the ground, the better I feel."

Marie smiles despite herself. "If I could, I would build you a castle in the sky," she says fondly. He lowers his gaze predictably in embarrassment. She gathers her nerve, and asks, "May I come up, or would you rather I left you alone?"

"Oh, no, please, don't go," he says hastily. "I would be glad of your company, as always."

Relieved and terrified all at once, Marie hobbles over and passes the candle holder up to him. "Why are you limping?" he asks in concern.

She tries to pull herself up the ladder, which is nothing more than a few boards nailed to the tree's trunk. "I have a splinter in my foot. Although it feels more like a rafter. I'm afraid to find out."

"I'll take a look at it." He takes her hands in his and, with seemingly no effort at all, pulls her up the rest of the way into the tree house.

As she sits beside him in the little room, Marie's heart begins to pound in her ears, and her stomach feels like it wants to do cartwheels straight up her throat and out of her mouth. So this is it. She's really going to go through with it. Once she tells him, there's no taking it back. It's all or nothing.

_God help me,_ she thinks, biting her lip.

"May I talk to you about something?" she asks, her breath short.

"Of course." Quasimodo clears his throat. "I, um... I'll need to see your foot," he says diffidently.

There is a short, awkward silence, during which Marie tries desperately to figure out what he's talking about. "Oh, right," she blurts.

Fumbling with her left stocking, she rolls it off her leg and lays it flat on the floor so it will dry more quickly. As casually as she is able, she stretches her bare foot toward him. After a brief hesitation, Quasimodo takes it and places it gingerly in his lap. She is dimly aware that beneath her cloak, she is dressed in only her chemise, and that this is the first time any man, outside of her immediate family, has ever seen this much of her bare leg. But for the immediate present, all she can focus on is the feeling of his large, rough hands on her skin.

"You should've taken it out right away," he says at length, his voice gently reproving. "With all that walking, you've managed to drive it in pretty deep. This is going to hurt."

"It already hurts. Just get it over with."

Holding her foot steady in one hand, he pinches the wood sliver between his fingers and pulls it out with a sudden motion. Marie can't quite hold back a yelp of pain. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, noticing her strained expression. As his thumb brushes soothingly over the sensitive skin on the top of her foot, she barely manages to keep from whimpering, and not from pain.

"May I use your stocking to bandage it?" he asks solicitously.

She nods silently, hoping he'll assume the redness of her cheeks are a result of the autumn cold.

As Quasimodo carefully wraps her foot, he begins talking in his quiet voice, as if trying to distract her from his task. "I used to get splinters all the time when I was very young, usually in my hands. I had to learn to take them out myself, because my master was always busy, and the sisters at the Hôtel-Dieu were afraid of me. I'll never forget the first time I left the cathedral. I was six years old, and I'd gotten some very painful rope burns on my hands from trying to ring the bells. Even at that age, I was fascinated by them." He smiles faintly at the memory.

"I couldn't ask my master for help, because he was visiting his little brother Jehan, who stayed with the miller's family at his fief." Is it her imagination, or does she detect a note of anger in his usually mild voice? "I knew that the hospital wasn't far away, so I decided to go there for help. I had to wait until after nightfall, because I didn't want to frighten anyone. I put on a cloak and ran across the Parvis as quickly as I could. But the moment I stepped inside the hospital, I was surrounded by screaming nuns, who rushed at me and threw me outside again." He shakes his head, almost in self-reproof. "I don't know why I was surprised. I guess I thought the sisters would be kind to me."

This is the first story Marie has ever heard of Quasimodo's childhood. If this one incident is any indicator, he must have been the loneliest boy in the world. Quickly, she brushes away a tear that has found its way to her cheek.

"Anyway," he resumes with a light shrug, "my hands healed on their own, and they toughened up eventually. I doubt any splinters could get past these calluses now," he adds with a self-deprecating chuckle, turning his rough palms up to show her.

Without hesitation, Marie reaches out and takes them in hers. "I like your hands," she says, her voice thick with emotion.

He raises his gaze to hers. In the candlelight, his disfigured features are thrown into sharp relief, but she doesn't find him ugly in the slightest. A loving eye is all the charm needed.

"Oh, Mariette," he says, and her heart thrills at the nickname. But to her disappointment, he pulls his hands out of her grasp and turns his head away in shame. "You wouldn't like them at all if you knew what they had done. You would hate them." He swallows. "You'd hate me."

"Nonsense," she tells him firmly. "You saved Gabriel's life, Quasi. I'll never forget that. And neither should you."

He shakes his head wordlessly, covering his face with his hands. There is a long silence, broken by a shuddering sob. "I couldn't save _her_," he chokes out at last.

Her inhibitions and her sense of propriety entirely overpowered by her sympathy and her need to comfort him, Marie moves in close, her leg still draped awkwardly across his lap as she puts a hand on his massive shoulder. "Poor boy," she murmurs consolingly, lifting her other hand to smooth his hair. "You really loved her, didn't you?"

His next words are like a knife in her heart:

"I'll always love her."

* * *

Quasimodo feels Marie pull slowly away, her arms falling limply at her sides. In the intensity of his anguish, he doesn't notice the blank despair in her own face, or the tears of heartbreak in her green eyes.

She passes a hand quickly across her face and clears her throat. "What was her name?" she asks, her voice tight.

He sighs, and his gaze drifts out the window, in the direction of Montfaucon. "Esmeralda."

And the mere act of uttering that one name brings it all back: the memories, the emotions... the pain. The unbearable pain he had managed to bury when he was accepted into the Lefévre family comes rushing back to him, like a flash flood. Marie is at his side, urging him to tell her. Almost against his own volition, he begins to speak.

He tells her everything.

He tells her of his master, Dom Claude Frollo, and how he became obsessed with a young gypsy dancer. How he ordered Quasimodo to abduct her, and how in his devotion to the only father he had ever known, he obeyed without question. He tells her of his arrest, and of the trial, and of the punishment to which he was sentenced. He tells her of the hour of flogging he underwent in the Place de Grève, and the additional hour of misery and humiliation he suffered at the mercy of the crowd which had gathered — first, merely to watch, and later, to throw stones. He tells her how his master, the archdeacon, for whose sake Quasimodo suffered gladly, had caught sight of him, chained to the pillory, and turned abruptly in the opposite direction.

And how the little gypsy girl, accompanied by her white goat, had climbed the pillory in front of everyone and given him a drink of water.

He tells her of the strange, wonderful sensation he felt whenever he watched her dancing in the square from the heights of his belltower, and how he soon came to the realization that it could only be love. And, with a sense of dread, that he was not her only admirer.

He tells her how Frollo had the gypsy girl framed for murder, and how he watched with growing desperation as her executors brought her to Notre-Dame for her final confession. How he climbed silently down the façade of the cathedral, completely unnoticed by the crowd. And how he rescued her from her captors and brought her into the safety of the church, to the cheering and adulation of thousands.

He tells her how he cared for and protected Esmeralda from that day on, giving up his own food and bedding for her. How he brought her little things to lift her spirits — a vase of flowers or a cage of birds — and how she repaid his kindnesses with looks of terror and revulsion. How he saved her from the feverish advances of his master, who was determined to either claim her or kill her. And how he fought off an army of Truands, unaware that they were coming to save her before sanctuary could be lifted... and, he later learned, to relieve the church of its treasures.

He tells her of the cold, consuming rage which coursed through his veins as he caught sight of Jehan Frollo, his master's precious brother, as he breached the gallery of the cathedral — a drunken, womanizing profligate of whom the archdeacon was inordinately fond, while Quasimodo, despite his lifelong faithfulness, never received one word of praise or approval. He tells her how Jehan calmly raised his crossbow and shot an arrow straight into his arm, and how even as he grabbed him and peeled the armor from his skinny body, the boy laughed mockingly into his face. And how, with a sort of dim awareness, as if he were watching himself from very far away, he picked Jehan up by his feet and dropped him over the balustrade.

He tells her how, during the assault on Notre-Dame, Esmeralda somehow vanished from under his very nose, and how by the time he noticed her missing, it was too late. How he searched the cathedral high and low, over a hundred times, shouting until his voice was gone. How he suddenly saw Frollo, ascending the staircase of the north tower, and silently followed him. How he watched with mounting unease as the archdeacon came to a halt before the stone parapet, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. How his heart sickened when he saw what had captured his master's attention.

And how he wept when he watched his beloved gypsy girl die.

He tells her how his grief and despair turned into fury as Frollo began to laugh maniacally, insanely, revelling in the dying girl's last twitches. How he rushed at the archdeacon and pushed him over the side of the parapet, where, after clutching desperately for a moment to one of the stone gargoyles, he lost his grip and fell.

And he tells her how, after following the executioners' assistants as they carted Esmeralda's body outside the Paris walls to the gibbet of Montfaucon, he wrenched open the door to the crypt and lay down beside her, holding her to his chest and telling her over and over how sorry he was that he had failed her.

And how, just as he had resigned himself to die, a hand touched him on his shoulder, and a voice told him to hold on.

And when he stops speaking, the strangest thing happens. He suddenly feels better. Lighter. Cleaner. Like an enormous burden has been lifted from him.

Then he looks over at Marie, and is alarmed to see that she is crying.

"Oh, no," he says miserably, realizing by now that she must surely hate him, after all she has learned. "Oh, little Marie, please don't cry—"

Without warning, she throws herself into his arms, knocking the wind out of him.

Stunned into immobility, Quasimodo simply stares as, for the second time that day, the girl weeps into his shoulder, her small hands clutching at his tunic. "You won't go back to that horrible place, will you?" she says, her voice muffled. "Promise me you won't."

Amazed but extraordinarily touched, he draws his arms around her. "I promise," he murmurs.

Marie buries her face in his neck, and he shivers as he feels her warm breath on his skin. Before he is even aware of what he is doing, he pulls her close, until she is for all intents and purposes sitting in his lap. Her small body settles against him, and her hair smells of rosemary and lavender. He finds himself inhaling deeply, needing more of that heady scent. His hands which, entirely of their own free will, have been gently stroking her back, now sink themselves into her wild, bronze-colored hair.

Good God.

Finally, her sobs die away, and she pulls back with a sheepish expression on her tear-stained face. "I'm sorry," she says, wiping at her eyes. At some point in their embrace, her cloak fell away, revealing the thin chemise underneath. The collar has slipped off her left shoulder, and he can't stop staring at the smooth, freckled skin.

Quasimodo shakes his head quickly, ashamed at his inexcusable behavior. "No, I'm sorry, Marie. I... I shouldn't have told you all that."

"I'm glad you did. And now that I know, it doesn't change my opinion of you. I still think you're a wonderful person, and I hope you never doubt that."

His chest constricts at her words. His face feels hot, his breath is short, and abruptly he is aware of how very, very alone they are.

Turning away, he busies himself with fixing the bandage on Marie's foot, which has come untied. He clears his throat. "What was it you were going to tell me?" he asks evenly.

The girl stiffens. "Oh. Um... It's nothing. At least, I... I don't think I should..." She swallows. "It can wait," she ends weakly.

He frowns. "Are you sure?"

She nods, her eyes fixed on her lap. "Yes. I'm sure." Suddenly she looks up with a smile. "Anyway, thank you for helping me with my foot. But I really should be getting back to bed."

"Then let me carry you. You'll need to stay off that foot for a while."

Her smile falters a bit. "All right," she says shakily.

After blowing out the candle — his hyperacute night vision has no need of it — he lifts the girl onto his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow and easily climbs down from the tree house. On the ground, he adjusts his hold on her, with one arm under her knees and the other around her back. The walk back to the farmhouse is made in silence, Quasimodo looking straight ahead while trying to ignore the sensations caused by Marie's arms around his neck.

At the door of the cottage, he pauses. Noticing his hesitation, she says, "I can make it the rest of the way on my own."

He eyes her dubiously. "Are you sure about that?"

"Don't worry. I'll be fine."

Reluctantly, he sets her down, and receives another shock when she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. "Good night, dearest Quasimodo."

He swallows hard. "Good night, Mariette."

With a small smile, she turns and disappears inside the house. For a moment, he can't remember how his legs work.

When he finally returns to his hayloft, he lies down on his straw mattress. But he can't sleep.

He can't help it. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Marie. He can't seem to get her out of his head. Marie's long, thick hair, the color of autumn, of bronze bells. Marie's clear, grayish-green eyes. Marie's adorable freckles. Marie's lovely smooth shoulders.

Marie's warmth. Marie's scent. Marie sitting in his lap.

Marie's lips on his cheek, dangerously close to the corner of his mouth.

Quasimodo groans.

"Not again," he whispers.

* * *

**About time, Quasi. :P**

**Wow, this was long. Seriously long. But I enjoyed writing it, as hard as it was. By the way, I hate Jehan. Let's just get that out of the way. In this girl's opinion, he deserved what he got... as gruesome as it was. O_o Anyway, tell me what you thought of my latest chapter, won't you?**

**R.R.**

**P.S. Also, I borrowed a line from _Jane Eyre_. See if you can spot it. :)**

***"To Suffer in Silence" (lit. "Great Sorrow Is Often Silent")**


	8. Loin des Yeux, Près Du Coeur

**Man! That's what happens when you house-sit for someone who has no wi-fi. There's nothing to do but write. Angst galore in this here chapter, so be warned. As always, my profound thanks goes out to those who reviewed!**

**I claim no ownership of the novel or movie on which this is based.**

* * *

Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter Eight: Loin des Yeux, Près Du Coeur*

_"It was now, and we were both in the same place_

_Didn't know how to say the words_

_With my heart ticking like a bomb in a birdcage_

_I left before someone got hurt"_

— _"If I Had You", A Fine Frenzy_

Feeling her way blindly up the stairs, Marie nearly trips over herself in her haste to gain the safety and privacy of her room. Hands groping along the walls, she limps down the dark hallway and hauls herself up the ladder into the little attic. At last, after carefully pulling it up behind her, she moves slowly to her bed and sits down, giving over to quiet sobbing.

How could she be so stupid?

Of course Quasimodo doesn't have feelings for her. Why would he? He's still in love with that gypsy girl, that Esmeralda. Esmeralda! When he said her name, he uttered it with such reverence, such undisguised adoration that Marie felt her cheeks burn with envy. For how could a plain, uninteresting little farmgirl ever compare to an Esmeralda?

And it's not as if he's the type to just get over someone. Marie knows him well enough by now. His fierce, unshakable sense of loyalty would never let him. No; once a person like Quasimodo gives away his heart, it's for good. For always.

And he's already given it to a ghost.

_He'll never love me,_ Marie realizes with a stifled sob.

Angrily, she dashes the tears from her face. It's her own fault. She's painfully aware of that. If she hadn't been so blind, she would have been able to see that Quasimodo had never cared for her. Yes, he's kind to her. But he's kind to everyone! What on earth should make her any different? And it's true that he was very gentle and tender when he held her. But what does that prove? Only that he was appreciative of the gesture. She wouldn't be surprised if they were the first hugs the poor boy has ever received in his entire life. He was probably overjoyed that anyone would _want_ to hug him.

She's such an idiot.

Why did she have to go and fall for him, anyway? She's never been able to bring herself to care one bit about the other young men in the village. Falling in love was never her number one priority; it wasn't even in her top ten. What was it about this one young man — this one lonely, disfigured young man, whom everyone else regarded as a monster — that caused her to completely change her mind about romance?

But of course, she knows the answer to that.

_Everything._

His smile. His quiet voice. His beautiful eyes. And his even more beautiful soul.

Slowly, Marie lies back on her bed and stares up at the ceiling, her vision blurring once more as fresh tears spring to her eyes.

How can she ever face him again?

* * *

The barn is cold. The sheep, whose fleece has not fully grown in yet from being shorn in the summer, huddle together for warmth inside their pen. André, who usually dislikes having to wear anything on his back, seems grateful for his wool blanket; at least, he hasn't pulled it off and tossed it on the ground yet. And the cat has become quite fond of her new perch, which happens to be Quasimodo's huge, asymmetrical shoulders. She has a bad habit of getting a little too comfortable, and it's hard to discourage her from kneading his skin with her claws.

At the moment, however, he hardly notices. As the animal happily sinks her sharp little digits into his already scarred shoulders, he stares broodingly at his model of the farm. The buildings are painted, but a few figures still remain unfinished, including those of his new family. He has yet to begin work on his own wooden counterpart. With his chores done, this would be a perfect time to start. But as much as he would like to, he can't even bring himself to lift a paintbrush.

He's wondering what he did wrong.

He still doesn't know what possessed him to divulge his entire history to Marie, but he found that upon doing so, a profound peace settled over him. It was almost as though he _needed_ to get the words out, in order to move on with his life. He can't recall ever feeling this... _alive._ And it all started with that night.

_That night._ Quasimodo will always cherish the memory of that night. He can recall with perfect clarity the way it felt to hold Marie in his arms. The weight of her slender body against his. The scent of her hair. The sweet ache in his heart. He didn't want it to end.

But it did. And ever since that night, things just haven't been the same between them.

For one thing, he can hardly look at her without feeling his pulse begin to race. He knows it's wrong, but he can't help missing her warmth. At first he was ashamed of himself for even thinking such a thing, and he rebuked himself severely for it. What was the matter with him? He loved Esmeralda. Had he forgotten so quickly? No, of course not. He would always love her. Even thinking about another woman that way was a betrayal to her.

_Yet,_ he asked himself, _how can it be a betrayal, if she never loved you?_

As much as it hurts him to admit it, his love for Esmeralda was doomed from the beginning. She was too young, too naïve; even more naïve than he had been. She was too swept away in her infatuation with that idiot soldier, Phoebus de Châteaupers. She was — and this is what hurts Quasimodo the most — too shallow to see past his grotesque exterior to who he was inside. She was sweet, and vivacious, and so painfully beautiful that he felt unworthy to even look at her... but she was only a child.

But Marie. Oh, little Marie.

She's so kind to him. From the very first day they met, she was always by his side. Not once did she ever shrink from him in fear or disgust. He was always too busy stewing in misery and self-pity to notice, but she treated him like he was someone special, like he was actually worth something. And even when he confessed to her all the terrible things he's done, she didn't look on him with scorn, or send him away. She told him he was wonderful. _Him._ He still doesn't know what he did to deserve to even know someone like her. But he's never been one to question Providence.

Of course, he would be a fool to think that Marie could ever see him as anything more than a friend. But that's more than enough for him. Or at least, that's what he has persuaded himself to believe.

But oh, to be more than a friend to her. To fall asleep every night to the sound of her breathing. To wake up with her head pillowed on his chest, her soft hair tickling his neck. To feel her warm lips against his own... _God!_ Why does he insist on torturing himself like this? What could he ever offer her, anyway? He's nobody. He's worse than nobody. Even nobodies don't look the way he does.

No. He could never hope for anything more than Marie's friendship, and he has vowed to do everything he can to be worthy of it.

He looks down at her little wooden double. He has yet to finish its dress, but it doesn't seem to mind as it stares sightlessly up at him with its painted smile. As he picks it up and gazes at the figure, nearly swallowed up by his enormous hand, he sighs. He hasn't seen Marie, the _real_ Marie, smile like that in a long time.

That's the other thing that has changed. Marie hasn't been her usual cheerful self. At first Quasimodo was worried that it was because of what he'd told her that night, but she assured him repeatedly that this was not the case. Still, he's not quite sure if he believes her. There's a sadness in her eyes when she looks at him, a kind of gray hopelessness that cuts him to the quick. He knows he's done something wrong. But what?

"What should I do?" he whispers to the little figurine. "What should I do to make her happy again?"

In response, the cat begins bathing his neck with her rough tongue, and he blushes to the roots of his hair. Definitely not _that._

Placing the figure on the table again, Quasimodo plucks the cat from his shoulders and sets her on the wooden floor. She casts an annoyed glare at him before trotting off, presumably to resume her second favorite perch on the horse's back. Taking a deep breath, he pulls on his cloak, climbs down from the hayloft, and makes his way out of the barn toward the farmhouse.

As he enters through the kitchen door, he is greeted by Bernard, who is warming his feet by the hearth. To Quasimodo's surprise, none of the Lefévres are anywhere to be found. "Arnaud and Gabriel are down by the pond, putting some finishing touches on the tree house," Bernard explains, in answer to his unspoken question. "Marie's upstairs, if that's who you're looking for."

He nods, trying not to appear as apprehensive as he feels. "Thank you."

"Yep. You just missed her friend Joséphine. She said to tell you hello."

_I'll bet she did,_ Quasimodo thinks wryly as he ascends the narrow stairs. Joséphine Fournier, an energetic dark-haired girl, is a year younger than him who lives with her family on the far side of the village. She is Marie's oldest friend, and for that reason and that reason only, he tries very hard not to think ill of her. He met her only once, and on that occasion she threw a basket of bread at him and ran away screaming. Naturally, that didn't make for the most favorable first impression.

The closer he gets to the attic, the more his tension mounts. He hasn't been in Marie's room since that first week he spent convalescing in her bed. Now, his cheeks grow warm at the thought of it. To think that he actually slept in her bed, that he laid his head on the very same pillow she uses...

He suppresses a groan. This has to stop.

The trap door is open, the ladder extended. He hesitates for a moment, then knocks lightly on the wall. "Marie?" he calls in what he hopes is a casual manner. "It's me. May I come up?"

There is a brief silence. "Sure, Quasi. Of course."

His pulse quickens a little at the sound of her voice, but he forces himself to remain calm as he climbs the ladder to her room. At his entrance, she looks up and gives him a smile which doesn't reach her eyes. "Something you needed, Quasi?" she asks lightly.

"I..." He pauses. What is he here for again? "I was wondering if you would like to take a walk before supper," he says, remembering at last.

"Oh, that sounds lovely. And I really would like to, but unfortunately, I'm a little busy at the moment. Maybe after supper?"

"All right," he replies, slightly disappointed. Then he finally notices what is currently occupying her attention. There is a large woven basket on her bed, and she is pulling clothes from her chest of drawers and putting them into it. His eyes widen in alarm as he watches her. "Wh-What are you doing?" he asks nervously.

She pauses to brush her hair out of her face. "Joséphine is getting married." Quasimodo frowns. He can't help thinking this has little or nothing to do with what he asked her. "Her wedding is coming up very soon, and she's going to be moving to the city afterward. We won't get to see each other as often, and she wants me to stay with her until she has to move."

Quasimodo's heart plummets into his stomach. "Y-You're... You're leaving?" he says weakly.

"In a few days. But I'm getting all of the packing done now. I hate packing." She sighs wearily. "Two weeks of being surrounded by Joséphine's little brothers. Oh, joy."

He shakes his head. He still can't believe what he's hearing. "You mean, you're going to be gone for two whole weeks?" _What will I do without you?_ he almost asks, before he stops himself.

"I'm afraid so. Joséphine isn't exactly what you'd call bride material, and her mother is always too busy with the little ones, so I'm going to have to educate her in the ways of cooking and cleaning, and all those other exciting womanly duties." She rolls her eyes in a perfect imitation of her brother. "Something tells me I'm going to have my hands full."

As he listens, Quasimodo begins to feel vaguely ill. He has only known Marie for a few months, but already he has grown so accustomed to her presence that he can't even imagine being separated from her for two weeks. Two weeks without seeing her freckled face, or hearing her low, soothing voice. How will he survive?

Marie notices his stricken expression and pauses in her packing. "Don't worry, the time will go by quickly. And you'll still have Uncle Arnaud and Bernard and Gabe to keep you company." She gives him another quick, almost cursory smile. "I'll be back before you know it."

He stares at her bleakly. "Will you?"

As she returns his gaze, her detached, nonchalant façade finally seems to give way. "Of course I will," she says gently, coming forward and slipping her hand into his. "Quasi, don't look at me like that. It's not like I'm going away forever."

For a long moment, Quasimodo looks down at her little hand engulfed in his. Then he swallows. "Whatever I did to upset you, I'm sorry," he says thickly.

She gives his hand a firm squeeze. "You didn't do _anything_ to upset me, sweet boy," she tells him in a low, wavering voice. "Not a thing."

"But I did. I _know_ I did. You're just too kind to tell me." In his frustration and despair, he lifts her hand and presses it to his lips. "Please, Mariette, just tell me what I did wrong. I promise I'll make it up to you. Just... don't go."

The girl shakes her head. He notices to his dismay that her face is flushed, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears. "Try to understand, Quasi," she says unsteadily. "You didn't do anything wrong. I need to get away from here for a while, that's all. I can't tell you why. It's just something I _need_ to do. Please don't make this harder than it already is."

"I..." He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want her to go, but can't bear seeing her so unhappy. If there's any chance that her leaving for a while will do her good, then of course he can't ask her to stay.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. "I want whatever is best for you," he says at last.

Marie smiles, and this time it is a genuine smile that lights up her eyes. "You're such a good friend," she says, giving his hand one last squeeze before releasing it.

As she returns to her packing, Quasimodo feels his shoulders sag in defeat. _Friend._

_Don't remind me._

* * *

"Marie! Did you see what I just did? I stood on my head for ten whole seconds! Did you see? Marie! You're not even watching!"

Maries sighs heavily as Joséphine's youngest brother Marcel tugs impatiently on her dress. She's starting to think this wasn't such a good idea.

At first, the more she thought about Joséphine's offer to come stay with her, she was convinced that she had made the right decision. She still loves Quasimodo dearly, and has realized that nothing will change that, but being around him constantly was driving her to distraction. She couldn't eat or sleep. She couldn't even _think_. She had to be on her own for a while, to analyze her current predicament and figure out what to do about it. And she couldn't do that with him near her.

And, of course, there was another, more vital reason why she had to leave. She knew if she didn't, she was bound to say or do something incredibly stupid.

Her uncle didn't seem to think it was such a good idea. As she said her goodbyes, she noticed him looking at her with a pinched expression on his thin face.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked in an undertone as she stood on her toes to kiss him.

Marie lowered her eyes and nodded. "Yes, I'm sure, Uncle," she said quietly. "I believe it's for the best."

"If you say so." Arnaud smoothed down her wild auburn hair. "Write to me if you need anything. Or if you decide you can't endure Joséphine's brothers another second longer."

Her lips quirked in a wry smile. "Don't worry, I won't hesitate to do so."

Bernard came forward and gave her an affectionate peck on the forehead. "So long, cricket. Say hello to the Fourniers for me."

"I will. Goodbye, Bernard."

She had to glare at Gabriel for a moment before he finally trudged over and allowed her to hug him. "Be good," she told him as she kissed the top of his head. "And don't go up in that tree house unless you're with Uncle or Quasi."

He sighed. "Fine," he said reluctantly, before extricating himself and giving her hair a playful tug.

Quasimodo stood unnaturally still as she approached him. She could tell he was not pleased, but was trying his best not to let it show. "I made this for Joséphine," he said in a monotone, holding up a wooden box with flowers carved into its lid. "I thought she might like to dry her wedding bouquet and keep it in here."

Marie smiled as she took it from his hands and placed it in her basket of belongings. "That's very sweet of you. I'm sure she'll be glad to have it."

A long, awkward silence passed between them. Finally she cleared her throat. "Well. I guess I should go. Joséphine's father is waiting in his cart."

He nodded. Marie hesitated for a moment, debating on whether or not she should hug him. It would only be twisting the knife in the wound. _Oh, to hell with it,_ she thought, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around him.

Instantly Quasimodo drew her close, holding her tightly against him as if afraid he'd never see her again. "Goodbye, Mariette," he whispered in her ear. He pushed her long hair aside, and as his fingertips gently grazed the nape of her neck, she nearly came apart. She shut her eyes, trying to hold on to this moment for as long as she could.

At last she found the strength to pull herself away. The dark, despairing look in his eyes nearly made her change her mind.

"I'll see you in two weeks," she heard herself say.

_What was I thinking?_

For the first few days, Marie felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Finally, she could breathe! She could relax! She could last an entire day without wanting to scream or cry or grab Quasimodo by the collar and kiss him senseless! (When did she start thinking about _that_, anyway?) But as time passed, and she settled into the routine at the Fourniers' home, she began to regret her decision.

No matter what she does, no matter how she chooses to occupy her time, she can't stop thinking about him. Her heart still aches as she remembers the look he gave her when she left. He may not reciprocate her feelings, but it's obvious that he does care about her, and her decision to leave hurt him deeply.

_I've only got five days left,_ she keeps telling herself. _It's not an eternity._

But why does it feel as though it _is?_

Across the kitchen of the Fourniers' cottage, Joséphine keeps stealing covert little glances at her now and then as she tries to get the hang of sewing. Or at least, she seems to think they are covert. She's a nice girl, and Marie is grateful for her friendship. But she's not exactly subtle. About anything.

She sets down the handkerchief she is embroidering. "What's the matter, Jo?" she finally asks.

The dark-haired girl gives her a sympathetic look. "You miss him, don't you?"

Marie feels herself blush. "What?"

"I _know_ you heard me," Joséphine replies dryly. "And I know _you_ know who I'm talking about." She squeaks in pain as she pricks herself with her needle. Exhaling noisily in frustration, she drops her sewing in her lap. "I know I shouldn't have screamed at him. I'm sorry about that. But you could've given me a little warning, Marie!"

"I'll keep that in mind," Marie says hollowly.

"Who're you talking about?" Marcel asks, looking up at them with wide brown eyes.

"No one," Marie replies quickly.

"Quasimodo," Joséphine tells him at the same precise instant.

The little boy's nose wrinkles. "He's scary," he says matter-of-factly, before running off to join his older brothers outside.

"He's not scary!" his sister calls after him. "He's just... different." She sighs, dubiously contemplating the hopeless state of her own handiwork. "He really is a nice boy," she admits. "And that box he made for me is beautiful. I feel bad for acting the way I did. And honestly, he's not nearly as ugly as I thought."

"Jo," Marie says simply, "stop."

"What? What did I say?"

"Just... stop."

"Excuse _me_," the girl says indignantly. "All I'm saying is, I don't think you're crazy for feeling the way you do about him. Well," she adds in what she no doubt considers a tactful tone, "not _completely_ crazy, anyway."

_Oh, for God's sake._ Marie looks up at her miserably. "You can tell?"

Joséphine casts her a glance that clearly says, _What do you think?_

Marie slumps forward in her chair and lowers her face into her hands.

Quickly setting aside her sewing, the younger girl crosses the room and kneels beside her, putting her arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry, it's not _that_ obvious," she hastens to assure her. "I'm just good at noticing things like this." She smiles ironically. "I may not be as smart as you, but I have my moments."

Gratefully, Marie leans into her friend's embrace. "You know," Joséphine continues reflectively, "when I first met Gilles, I didn't think anything would come of it. For one thing, I didn't think he was interested in me at all. He's so quiet and serious, and I'm... well, _not._" Marie chuckles. "And he was just... the exact opposite of the kind of man I always pictured myself ending up with. Remember when we were younger, and we'd talk about what sort of men we would marry?"

"Mostly, I remember _you_ talking, and me smiling and nodding a lot," Marie says jokingly.

"Fair enough," she replies, laughing. "It's funny to think about it now. I had a list and everything. Whoever I married had to be tall, blond, handsome, and extremely charming. And, well... Gilles is tall, anyway." She smiles softly to herself. "The truth is, Gilles isn't at all the sort of man I thought I'd marry. He's _better._"

Marie smiles. "I'm happy for you, Jo."

Joséphine blushes prettily. "Thank you." She sighs and stands up. "Anyway," she resumes briskly, dusting off her dress, "if you really care for this boy, for your Quasimodo... then that's all there is to it. Nothing else matters."

The older girl shakes her head. "He's not _my_ Quasimodo," she says in a low voice, still embarrassed at being found out by her friend. "And it's not that simple. He doesn't... feel the same way I do."

"How do you know? Have you asked him?"

"Well, no..."

"Marie!" Joséphine stares at her incredulously. "That's not like you at all. You're usually so... so..."

"Blunt?" she suggests dryly.

She gives her a long-suffering smile. "I was going to say straight-forward."

Marie swallows, suddenly afraid that if she says another word, she might burst into tears. "I... I was going to tell him," she says shakily, her hands tightening reflexively around the handkerchief in her lap. "But I just couldn't. He loved this girl, but she died, and... he'll never be able to let her go. I know him too well." To her annoyance, she feels her lip begin to quiver. "But he's so wonderful, Jo. He's sweet, and kind, and gentle, and she _never_ deserved him." Angry tears form in her eyes, and she has to pause to wipe them away. "I don't care if it's speaking ill of the dead, because it's true. She had no idea what she was missing."

"But you do," Joséphine tells her softly. "You know exactly what you're missing, and _still_ you won't tell him how you feel. I'm no expert, but... isn't that even worse?"

Taken aback, she stares up at her friend for a long moment through red-rimmed eyes. "I guess it is, isn't it?" she whispers at last.

Sighing to herself, Joséphine reaches down and gently takes the embroidering from her hands. "Go home, Marie," she says simply.

She blinks. "I... What?"

"Go _home_, for heaven's sake. Tell that boy how you feel. And stop assuming that you know how he's going to take it. Unless you tell him, you'll never really _know_ for sure, will you?"

"But..." Marie shakes her head. "But what about you? I still haven't taught you how to bake yet. I can't just leave you high and dry before your wedding."

Joséphine laughs. "Believe me, you can. Let's face it, Marie. I'm a terrible excuse for a homemaker, and we both know it. Thankfully, Gilles doesn't seem to mind. We'll manage somehow." Putting the embroidering on the table, she pulls Marie to her feet and gives her hands a squeeze. "I just want you to be happy. I always have."

Touched, Marie pulls her into a tight embrace. "Besides," the younger girl adds in a delicate tone, "I don't know how to tell you this, but you're _really_ depressing me."

Marie gapes at her in affrontery for a few seconds, and then bursts out laughing.

* * *

"I don't know how to tell you this, Quasi... but you're really bringing me down."

Quasimodo pauses in his task of brushing the burrs out of André's mane to stare up at Gabriel blearily. "...What?"

The youngest Lefévre growls in frustration from his perch on the wall of the stable. "You told me a week ago that you'd teach me how to do wood carving," he says crossly. "You promised. But all you've done lately is sit around and mope. No offense, but it's getting kind of old."

Sighing wearily, Quasimodo sets the brush down and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I'm sorry, Gabe," he says tiredly. "To be honest, I haven't really felt up to it. I haven't been sleeping very well. It makes it hard to concentrate on anything."

Turning and lowering his big head, the horse nudges his shoulder with his muzzle. As Quasimodo pets his nose absently, he feels Gabriel's eyes on him. After a while, the boy breathes out through his nose in annoyance.

"You seemed fine when Marie was here," he mutters.

"Gabe... Please don't start this again."

"I just don't get it, that's all." Gabriel jumps down from the stable wall, causing the horse to nicker in surprise. "You like my sister. Don't try to tell me you don't, because I know you do. So what's the problem? Just tell her and get married already. All this drama is making me sick." He illustrates his disapproval by sticking out his tongue.

Trying to ignore the blush creeping slowly up his neck, Quasimodo shakes his head. "Your sister... is my friend," he says firmly, not sure whom he is trying to convince, the boy or himself. "A very dear friend, but nothing more. And I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense."

The boy shrugs. "Fine. Have it your way." He pats André on the neck before stepping gingerly out of the stable, careful to avoid the horse's leavings. Only when his back is turned does Quasimodo allow his shoulders to droop under the weight of his misery.

"But you know," Gabriel says confidentially, pausing in the doorway, "she's crazy about you."

Quasimodo's stomach twists painfully. "Please don't joke about that kind of thing," he says tightly, picking up the brush again and returning his attention to the horse's mane.

The dark-haired boy turns around and regards him sympathetically. "I'm not joking, Quasi. I wouldn't do that."

"Then..." He hesitates, unable — or perhaps unwilling — to believe what he's hearing . "Then you must be mistaken."

Gabriel rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Don't you remember _anything_ I told you that day in the tree, right before you stopped me from falling?"

Quasimodo starts to reply, then stops short, finding himself at a loss. In his haste to save the boy, and in the commotion that followed, he forgot all about their earlier conversation. What was it that Gabriel said?

_"You do know why Marie is so nice to you, don't you? Why her face turns red whenever you talk to her? Why she's become a hopeless basketcase?"_

Oh, no. Surely not.

He recalls the way her cheeks became flushed that night in the tree house, when he tended to her injured foot. He remembers the way she looked at him as she told him that she needed to talk to him. There was an intense, nervous energy in her eyes, almost as though she were trying desperately to maintain her composure.

But she never did tell him what was on her mind. She never got the chance. He was too preoccupied in telling her about his past, and about...

_Esmeralda._

"Oh, my God," he whispers.

It would explain a lot. It would explain why Marie's mood changed drastically ever since that night. It would explain why she looked at him with a sort of dull despair, like her heart had been torn in two.

It would explain why she left.

He swallows. "How certain are you?" he asks Gabriel.

The boy hesitates, as if reluctant to give him an honest answer. "Everyone else sees it," he finally says quietly. "Everyone but you."

"But... But why would she ever...?" He trails off, his mind still reeling.

Gabriel shrugs helplessly. "Don't ask me. Girls are weird."

There is a long silence. Slowly, Quasimodo sets down the brush. For a moment, he can't bring himself to speak. "Will you... tell your uncle that I'll finish grooming André later?" he asks at last, hardly aware of what he is saying. "I need to be alone for a while."

Gabriel nods silently, stepping aside to allow Quasimodo to move past him out of the stable.

As he leaves the barn, he closes the door and leans forward, resting his forehead against the grain of the wood. He doesn't know what to think, or how to feel. He always assumed he would live out the remainder of his lonely existence up in his belltower. He never, in his entire life, prepared for any of this. He has no idea what to do.

It can't be true. It just _can't_. No woman alive could possibly care for someone as repulsive as him. Granted, Marie is not like any woman he has ever met, in that she is the first woman to ever treat him with kindness — not out of pity, as Esmeralda had done, but out of respect. But still, why would she waste her affections on him?

Gabriel must be mistaken. There can be no other explanation.

He doesn't know how long he stands there in that position, eyes closed.

But when he turns around, he is not alone.

At first, he thinks he must be dreaming. But there she is, as plain as day, with her basket tucked under her arm and her bronze-colored hair blown all about her face by the autumn wind. It's almost as though she appeared out of thin air.

_Marie._

She smiles softly. "Hello, Quasi."

Quasimodo looks around, wondering how on earth she could have gotten there. She seems to notice his confusion. "Joséphine's father brought me home," she explains. "I had him drop me off at the end of the lane." She shrugs somewhat sheepishly. "As you can see, I couldn't stay away for two whole weeks. I... I couldn't..." Suddenly her voice breaks. "I couldn't last that long."

Quickly, he limps toward her, and his heart leaps into his throat as she drops the basket on the ground and rushes forward, throwing herself headlong into his arms.

He holds her tightly against him, so tightly he fears he might hurt her. But Marie clings to him just as fiercely, burrowing her face into the crook of his neck. He shuts his eyes, deeply inhaling her scent, memorizing the way the contours of her body correspond so perfectly with his — almost as if she were _made_ to fit there. After a while, he relaxes his grip on her, and his hands slide, of their own accord, down to her narrow waist. As her own small hands reach up behind his neck to sink themselves into his hair, he nearly groans aloud in pure bliss.

"I missed you so much," he says huskily into the shell of her ear.

Marie's fingernails drag lightly across his scalp, causing him to shiver. "I missed you, too."

Hardly daring to breathe, Quasimodo lowers his head and, very hesitantly, brushes his lips delicately along her hairline. In response, she sighs and tightens her hold on him, and he finally allows himself to smile, one thought running feverishly through his mind, over and over.

_Maybe Gabriel is right._

* * *

**Wow. I've never written anything that intense before. I have to go lie down now.**

**But before I do, I have recently fallen slightly in love with the French version of the song "Out There". It's called "Rien qu'un Jour", and the voice actor who sings it is beyond amazing. I thought I loved Tom Hulce's voice, but this guy seriously has the voice of some adorable French angel. If you want to listen to it, just send me a PM with your email address, and I'll be happy to send it to you. I'm spreading the love. ^_^ Don't forget to review!**

**R.R.**

*** "Far from the Eyes, Near to the Heart"**


	9. L'Air ne Fait Pas la Chanson

**As always, my thanks to all my wonderful reviewers! I didn't know it had been so long since I updated! Sorry about that. Things have been pretty crazy for me lately. But crazy in a good way. I'll tell you more later. In the meantime, here's what you've been waiting for! :)**

**I claim no ownership of the novel or movie on which this is based.**

* * *

Foundling Child

by Renarde Rouge

Chapter Nine: L'Air ne Fait Pas la Chanson*

_"I know you haven't made your mind up yet_

_But I would never do you wrong_

_I've known it from the moment that we met_

_No doubt in my mind where you belong"_

— _"Make You Feel My Love", Bob Dylan_

This winter is going to be a bad one. Arnaud can already tell.

It has been raining heavily for days. The pond is twice as large as it was during the summer, and the fields have begun to resemble a marshland. Technically, the harvest work shouldn't have begun until after Saint Martin's Day, which marks the official beginning of winter, but this year, the farmers were forced to begin their harvesting several weeks earlier. Fortunately, the Lefévres managed to harvest their crops before they could be drowned, but they weren't able to furrow the fields before the downpour started. Whether the soil will be ready to support more crops next year is anyone's guess. They'll just have to hope for the best.

There are other signs. A couple of weeks ago, Arnaud noticed that the ducks and geese were migrating, much earlier than usual. The great oak has been dropping barrages of acorns on everyone's heads. And the crickets keep finding new and innovative methods of getting inside the cottage. Marie has only recently forgiven Gabriel for dropping one of their little houseguests down the back of her dress.

It's been nearly a week since the girl's return, and it has rained every day since. If Arnaud was a superstitious man, he would be tempted to regard it as some sort of portent. But of course, that would be ridiculous. It's just a meaningless coincidence.

In a way, Arnaud is glad that Marie decided to leave the farm for a while. It gave her some time to think, and although it wasn't easy seeing Quasimodo so depressed, her absence did give him the opportunity to realize exactly how much she means to him. As Sextus Propertius says, "Always toward absent lovers love's tide stronger flows." Not that the two young people are lovers, exactly... and not that Arnaud is the least bit prepared for that eventuality. God knows he's reluctant, to say the least, to even contemplate the thought of his adopted daughter in _that_ context. He'll just have to cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Still, he's glad that Marie is back. Very glad. _Inexpressibly_ glad.

Finally, he can get some decent food in him.

Of course, every member of the Lefévre household is invaluable. But there's no disputing which member is the cook. Marie can take some water, a few vegetables, and a slab of meat, and turn it into a mouthwatering stew, with a side of chewy bread to soak up the savory liquid. But when she left, she condemned the men of the house to fend for themselves. And cooking is not Arnaud's _métier_. In fact, he can just barely make porridge, and it usually ends up looking like something one would find on the floor of the chicken coop. At least, that's what Gabriel astutely pointed out to him.

Needless to say, everyone was relieved when Marie decided to return home earlier than she had intended. But no one was more relieved than Quasimodo. That much was painfully evident from the way his face positively radiated joy as he sat with the rest of the family around the kitchen table on the night she came back, listening with rapt attention to her amusing stories about the goings-on at the Fourniers'. His green eyes had a tender light in them that Arnaud had never seen before.

And it doesn't take a scholar like himself to recognize what that means.

From his place in the driver's seat of the cart, Arnaud gives André's reins a flick, urging the big horse to pick up the pace — as if the pouring rain isn't enough incentive to get back to the farm as quickly as possible. Under normal circumstances, he would have already been home from selling goods at the market some time ago, but there was an important errand which demanded his attention, and it took even longer than he had expected. Still, it all worked out in the end, and that's what counts.

Arnaud sighs and pulls his cloak tighter around his gaunt frame, but to little effect; the rain has already soaked through to his skin. He wonders, a little guiltily, what his life would be like if things were different — if, for instance, he had chosen to pursue his studies at the Abbey of Sainte-Geneviève instead of taking over his brother's farm. Would he be spending his days next to a roaring fire, poring over ancient texts, discovering lost pearls of wisdom and earning the praise and admiration of learned men? He will never know.

By the time he arrives home and meets Bernard, who offers to disengage the horse from his traces, night has already fallen. He is tired, drenched, hungry, and shivering. But then, as he trudges wearily inside the cottage, a chorus of youthful voices welcomes him home. Quasimodo takes his wet cloak from his shoulders and hangs it in front of the hearth to dry. Gabriel pushes him into a chair close to the fire, and Marie hands him a wool blanket and a bowl of hot stew.

As his feet gradually begin to thaw, so does his heart. He may not be a distinguished writer or philosopher, but he does have a loving family. He has all he needs.

He brings a spoonful of soup to his lips. "Delicious as always, Marie," he says with a smile.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Yes, mam'selle."

As they sit around the hearth, chatting about their day, Arnaud notices Quasimodo watching Marie with the same tender quality in his gaze that he remarked on a few days ago. It is only when the girl addresses him that he snaps out of his trance.

"I'm sorry?" he says, blinking.

Marie rolls his eyes in mock exasperation. "I knew you weren't listening," she says, smiling. "I said, I saw Joséphine's father in the village today. He told me that Joséphine is doing very well in the city. And she asked me to give you her thanks again for the gift you made for her." She hesitates a moment, then adds, "And to tell you she's sorry that you couldn't make it to the wedding feast."

Quasimodo shrugs his huge shoulders in resignation. "It's all right. We both know I wouldn't have been welcome, anyway." He chuckles somewhat darkly. "Besides, I doubt that Joséphine would have wanted the happiest day of her life to be spoiled by an angry, torch-wielding mob."

Arnaud feels a pang of sympathy for the lad, and Marie sighs and shakes her head. "Oh, Quasi..."

"I don't mind," Quasimodo assures her quickly. "Really." He smiles softly. "I have all I need."

He holds Marie's gaze steadily as he says this. Although the girl blushes, she doesn't look away. The air is heavy with unspoken emotions.

Growing increasingly uncomfortable by the second, Arnaud is on the verge of telling Gabriel that it's time for bed, when Bernard comes inside, and the moment is over.

The old man is soaked to the bone and clearly not pleased about it. "André is being difficult again," he growls, wiping the rain from his face.

Quasimodo stands up. "He's not letting you take off his bridle?"

"No. That damned animal is even more stubborn than I am. And the rain is coming down hard. He'll catch his death if he stays out there much longer."

"I'll see what I can do." The young man reaches for his own cloak and, wrapping it around himself, heads out into the cold, wet night.

As soon as he walks out the door, everyone turns to Arnaud. "Well?" Marie asks expectantly in a hushed tone. "How did it go? Did you talk to the curate? What did he say?"

"One question at a time, for heaven's sake," Arnaud replies in amusement. "To answer your first question, it wasn't easy. As for the second, I did talk to him. And at first, he told me in no uncertain terms that it was out of the question. I tried to reason with him, to tell him why it was so important. That didn't seem to go over so well. So in the end I appealed to his mercy, which, I was relieved to discover, is still more or less intact." He grins crookedly. "The upshot is, it worked."

Bernard sits down heavily in the chair Quasimodo vacated. "Thank God."

"He's agreed to allow it, just this once," Arnaud continues. "But it's going to have to be soon. This Saturday, as a matter of fact."

"This Saturday?" Marie repeats, her low voice tinged with excitement. "But that's Saint Martin's Day! That's perfect! Oh, Quasi will be so ecstatic!"

Gabriel is shaking his head. "Yeah, but how are we going to get him there? He won't even leave the farm."

"Oh," says Bernard unconcernedly, slowly inching his chair closer and closer to the fire, "I'm sure Marie will come up with something."

The girl regards him dubiously. "I will?"

"Think about it, cricket. The lad would do anything for you. If anyone can get him to change his mind, that person is you."

"Bernard!" The old man looks up at her, seemingly taken aback by her indignant exclamation. Her face is crimson with embarrassment. "You shouldn't say things like that. You make it sound like... like he's..."

_In love with you?_ Arnaud almost says, before he manages to restrain himself. He already decided months ago that he's not going to get involved. If it is meant to be, then the two will work it out on their own. Hopefully.

At that moment Quasimodo comes back inside, drenched from head to toe. He wastes no time in removing his dripping cloak and hanging it beside Arnaud's. "I g-got André's bridle off," he says, his teeth chattering. "I th-think he's just acting up to get attention."

"What a coincidence," Arnaud remarks as he rises to his feet. "Gabe used to employ the same tactic when he didn't want to go to bed."

"It worked, didn't it?"

He ruffles the boy's dark hair. "Indeed it did, my sly young fox." He takes the blanket off his own shoulders and hands it to Quasimodo, who accepts it gratefully. "Take my chair by the fire, Quasi. I'm off to bed."

He smiles. "Good night, Arnaud."

"Good night, Uncle," Marie chimes in. "_Dulcis et alta quies placidaeque._"

"Show-off," says Gabriel, shoving her playfully.

"'Night, lad," mumbles Bernard, half-asleep already.

As he drags his tired body up the stairs, Arnaud feels a smile tug at his lips. "Good night," he says quietly. "My most excellent, unparalleled, and beloved family."

* * *

Marie knew it would be difficult. She just didn't know _how_ difficult.

Frankly, she has no idea how she is going to pull this off. As Gabriel already remarked, Quasimodo is by no means eager to join the rest of society. Considering what invariably happens every time someone sees him in public, she can't say she blames him in the least for his reluctance. How can she possibly convince him to leave the safety of the farm, let alone set foot inside the city walls ever again?

But then, she remembers who they're doing this for, and why. She remembers how important it is for this to work out. And she decides not to take no for an answer.

"No," Quasimodo says instantly.

Marie sighs. _Here we go._

"But you have to come tomorrow," she persists, following him as he carries a fresh bale of hay across the barn to André's stable. "It's Saint Martin's Day. A _holy_ day. A day for feasting and celebrating. You can't spend it here."

He opens the door of the stable and sets the bale down inside. "I told you before," he says, kindly but firmly, "I don't mind. I like it here. I don't need to leave the farm to enjoy myself."

She knew he would say something like this. And that is why she prepared herself for it. "That's not the point," she replies, refusing to give in. "The tradition in our family every year has always been to attend the morning mass at Saint-Martin-des-Champs. And now you're part of the family, too. That means you can't get out of it."

Quasimodo's lips quirk in a faint smile. "That's very nice of you to say," he says as he reaches up to stroke the horse's muzzle. "And I appreciate the thought. But you have to be realistic about this, Marie. You know what'll happen if I ever go out... out _there_."

"That won't happen this time," she insists.

He laughs incredulously. "How can you say that? Of course it will."

As he steps back to close the stable door, Marie places her hand on his arm. "No, it won't," she says vehemently. "I won't let it."

"Marie..."

"When we first met, I told you that I wouldn't let anyone hurt you, ever again. I swore on my parents' graves. That is _not_ a promise that I take lightly."

Quasimodo gazes down at her hand for a moment, before hesitantly reaching up to cover it with his own. His skin is rough and warm. "That means a lot to me," he says quietly. "But you shouldn't feel obligated to protect me from the world. You don't owe me anything, Mariette. I'm the one who owes you." The pad of his thumb brushes lightly across her wrist, and Marie finds it increasingly difficult to focus on what he's saying. "I owe you... everything."

"Then come with us to the city, and I'll call us even," she says with an impish smile, aware that she is probably blushing madly.

He returns her smile, but shakes his head. "Nice try," he replies, releasing her hand and closing the door of the stable. "It's all right. You go ahead with the others. I'll look after things here until you get back."

Marie suppresses a growl. Who knew he could be so stubborn? _All right, Quasi,_ she thinks, _you made me do this._

Taking a deep breath, she crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm not leaving you alone on your birthday, and that's final."

He gapes openly at her, his blue-green eyes wide in surprise. "How..." He clears his throat. "How do you know tomorrow is my birthday?" he asks at last.

She smiles again, and this time, her smile is gentle. "Because you told me."

"I did?" He blinks. "When?"

"It was on the third day after you came here. You were trying to eat your breakfast, and I wouldn't stop bothering you until you told me exactly how old you were. I was convinced that you couldn't possibly be older than me." She smirks. "And then you just _had_ to prove me wrong when you said you'd be twenty on Martinmas, and I'd only just turned nineteen."

Quasimodo lets out a quiet chuckle. "I can't believe you remember all that."

"Well, of course I remember," she says fondly. "I remember everything you tell me."

As he looks at her again, her heart begins to race. In the several months since she has known Quasimodo, he has never held her gaze for this long. There is a look in his eyes that she has never seen before, a warm intensity that makes her feel excited and terrified at the same time.

Marie already decided, before she came home from the Fourniers', that she was not going to confess her feelings to him until after his birthday. No matter what, she wouldn't let anything lessen the importance of that day. But she soon found that, each day following her return, it became more and more difficult to restrain herself from blurting everything out in one tumbling torrent of words. It was sheer torture just to keep her mouth shut.

And now, under the scrutiny of those riveting eyes, she feels her resolve beginning to weaken.

Desperate to divert her mind from this line of thought, she returns to the issue at hand. "Quasi, I know you're nervous about this, but you don't have to worry. You won't be alone. You'll have all of us, right there with you." She smiles reassuringly. "Trust me. Everything will be all right."

He regards her warily, clearly unconvinced, but less firm than before. "I don't know..."

Marie takes a step closer to him, and puts a gentle hand on his immense, misshapen shoulder. "Please," she says simply. "Please come with us. For me."

A long sigh escapes him, and she can feel his muscles relax under her hand. Finally, he gives an almost imperceptible nod. "All right," he says in a tired voice. "I'll go. For you."

She grins and hugs him tightly. "Thank you," she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling back again. "I guarantee you won't regret it."

She only hopes she's right.

The next morning, like every morning before it for the past week, is cold, dark, and wet. But as it turns out, this works to their advantage. As the cart splashes along the muddy road, with Arnaud in the driver's seat, the rest of the family sits huddled together in the back of the cart. Bundled up in their hooded cloaks to keep out the steady, unrelenting rain, they resemble the monks at the Abbey of Saint-Martin's. If anyone were to glance at Quasimodo, they probably wouldn't notice anything different about him. At least, Marie is praying that they won't.

But it so happens that no one does. The few people they meet on the road barely acknowledge their presence, so intent are they to reach their destination and get out of the rain. But that doesn't prevent Quasimodo from stiffening visibly in fear every time they encounter someone. In an effort to calm his nerves, Marie reaches out for his hand and pulls it into her lap, ignoring the irritatingly amused looks she receives from Gabriel and Bernard. In response, he squeezes her hand tightly. After a while, he seems to relax.

As the wagon jostles along the road, Arnaud explains to Quasimodo a little about the history of Saint-Martin's. At the time of its founding, over four hundred years ago, the abbey was outside the walls of Paris and stood in the middle of a field, inside its own fortified wall; hence its name, Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields. Since then, the city has expanded, and the abbey was encompassed within the new wall.

Technically, the cathedral in which the Lefévres attend the Saint Martin's Day mass is not Saint-Martin's itself, but rather Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs, which is a parish church built more recently within the walls of the fortified abbey. From the time of its building, it has been a center for charitable works, as well as a refuge for pilgrims. It is nowhere near as grand as Notre-Dame, Arnaud admits, but in his opinion, it is no less beautiful. Quasimodo seems skeptical.

At last, Arnaud pulls on André's reins, and the wagon slows to a halt. Marie nudges Quasimodo, and points directly above his head. Raising his eyebrows curiously, he looks up.

Towering over them, starkly outlined against the gray sky, the cathedral of Saint-Nicolas is an imposing sight, with its high Gothic arches and stained glass fenestrations. Though its façade is devoid of the myriad carvings, statues, and gargoyles which adorn Notre-Dame, there is a simple elegance to its clean lines that never fails to take Marie's breath away. But her favorite part of all is the bell tower.

Judging from the expression on Quasimodo's face, she's pretty sure he agrees.

As they pile one by one out of the cart, Arnaud looks at the young man expectantly. "Well?"

He gives a sheepish smile. "You're right. It's... beautiful."

After tying the horse to a hitching post, they file in through the doors of the church. It is early. The morning service does not start for another half an hour, and as a result the cathedral is nearly empty. Their footfalls echo through the vast space, bouncing off the marble columns and the high vaulted ceiling. As they walk slowly through the nave, a reverent hush falls over them all; even Gabriel, who usually keeps up a running commentary on everything that crosses his mind, is rendered silent by the dignity and splendor of the cathedral.

Gradually Marie becomes aware of the sound of approaching footsteps. She turns to see an old man, dressed in the traditional vestments of a parish priest. It is Jean-Sébastien Lacroix. He has been the curate of Saint-Nicolas for longer than Marie has been alive. He is a stern man, but kind.

At his approach, Quasimodo turns quickly away, trying desperately to hide his face. The priest appears not to notice him. Instead, he smiles faintly at the Lefévres. "Good morning to you, my children," he says in his slightly gruff voice. "Bless you for coming on this somewhat intemperate day."

"Good morning, Monsieur le Curé," Arnaud answers pleasantly. "We wouldn't dream of missing today's service. Particularly in view of the circumstances." He inclines his head toward Quasimodo, who seems to be completely absorbed in inspecting the arrangement of the stone tiles under his feet. "You'll forgive my impertinence if I remind you of the agreement we made."

"Of course, of course." The curate steps forward, raising his voice. "Quasimodo. Come and let me have a look at you, if you please."

The young man freezes, startled at this blunt request. Slowly, he pulls back the hood of his cloak and turns around, his eyes on the stone floor.

"Yes, Monsieur le Curé." His voice is barely more than a terrified whisper.

At first, the old man's eyes widen as he takes in Quasimodo's distorted face and twisted figure in the flickering candlelight. But then, as Marie watches, her stomach churning in apprehension, his expression gradually turns to one of profound pity. "Oh, my son," is all he says.

There is a long, tense silence. Finally the curate clears his throat. "Are you ready, Quasimodo?" he asks at last.

He blinks in surprise, caught off guard by the oddness of the question. "Ready for what, Monsieur le Curé?" he inquires politely.

It is Marie's turn to clear her throat. "Forgive me, Monsieur le Curé," she says, feeling her face growing warm. "I'm afraid we neglected to inform Quasimodo of our agreement. The truth is, we wanted it to be a surprise. He has no idea why he is really here."

Quasimodo turns to her, looking alarmed. "Marie?"

But the curate merely smiles. "Come with me, my son. And the rest of you, if you would like."

They follow him to an alcove set into the south side of the nave, and up a long spiral staircase. At last they arrive in a large, drafty, open room, surrounded on all sides by slat-like eaves. The bell tower.

Forgetting his unease, Quasimodo gazes all about him, enraptured. He takes in the towering space, the enormous rafters, and most of all, the bells. As for Marie, it is the first time she has ever seen them. She is told that they are nowhere near as numerous, or as large, as the bells at Notre-Dame, but they are nonetheless impressive.

"Do you like them?" the old priest asks Quasimodo after a few minutes.

"Oh, yes, Monsieur le Curé," he replies breathlessly, seemingly unable to tear his gaze away from the great brass behemoths. "They're... They're exquisite."

"Good. Because I want you to ring the morning mass."

Quasimodo's head whips around to stare at the curate in pure shock. "You... You what?" he croaks.

"I'm told you were the bell ringer at Notre-Dame for six years. To make music to God in His own house, my son, is no small accomplishment. No doubt, after such a rare privilege, it is likely not much of an offer, but nevertheless, I would be grateful if you would accept."

As Marie watches, Quasimodo's eyes fill with tears. For a moment, he seems unable to say anything in reply. "I..." A half-stifled sob escapes him. "I would be honored," he chokes out at last.

By now Marie's own vision is slightly blurred. "Wonderful," says the priest simply. "Then I shall leave you to your work." He moves unhurriedly toward the stairwell, where he pauses. "Eleven minutes past eleven. Don't forget now."

"I won't," Quasimodo says fervently. "Thank you, Monsieur le Curé."

"Don't thank me, my son," he answers over his shoulder. "Thank your family. It was their idea."

After he disappears down the stairs, the young man turns toward them in astonishment, and Arnaud clears his throat. "Actually, it was Marie's idea," he clarifies. "If you must blame someone for the deception, blame her."

As Quasimodo stares silently at her, Marie smiles a little guiltily. "Sorry about the heart attack, Quasi."

Without a word, he steps forward and folds her into his embrace. Instantly, Marie feels her knees go weak as his powerful arms hold her tightly against him. Her eyes slip shut involuntarily, and she rests her chin on his shoulder, smiling stupidly.

Bernard had said — perhaps jokingly, and perhaps not — that Quasimodo would do anything for her. Marie knows now that she would do anything for him.

"Happy Birthday," she whispers, hugging him fiercely.

All too soon, he releases her, though not without pausing to bestow an impulsive kiss on her forehead. As she blushes furiously, Arnaud grins and shakes his head. "Come on," he says, gesturing toward the stairwell. "We don't want to be late for the service."

The others descend the spiral staircase, but Marie lingers behind in the doorway, reluctant to leave. As she casts one last look over her shoulder, she sees Quasimodo gazing at her steadily, with that same warm, intense, heartfelt expression on his face. If she had to give that expression a name, she would have to call it love.

She just barely manages to avoid tripping and falling down the stairs.

At precisely eleven minutes past eleven, the bells begin to ring. One by one, the heads of those sitting in the pews look up in wonder and delight as the sound reaches their ears. There is no doubt that it is the most beautiful carillon music any of them has ever heard. To be sure, those are the same bells they hear every day, and yet there is something different about the subtle harmonies and combinations of the tones. The result is both comfortingly familiar and exhiliratingly new.

From her place in the pews, between Gabriel and Arnaud, Marie smiles, her heart swelling with pride.

Finally, she understands the meaning of the proverb, "The sound does not make the song."

* * *

After the morning mass, the Lefévre family clambers into the cart and heads home. The rain has not lessened; if anything, it is coming down harder than ever. Twice on the journey back to the farm, the wagon wheels get stuck in the soupy mud, and everyone is forced to get out and jostle it free. The air seems to have grown colder, as well. As they sit together in the cart, they are obliged to huddle together for warmth.

And yet, for all that, Quasimodo can't stop smiling.

In all his twenty years of existence, he cannot recall ever being this happy. Not even close. Even when Esmeralda, that goddess among mortals, deigned to offer him a drink of water, he was not as profoundly affected as he was this morning. And when he learned whose idea it was to arrange for him to ring the bells at Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs, it was all he could do to keep from weeping with joy. As it was, he couldn't resist holding Marie to his racing heart, not even caring whether everyone was watching or not. He was moved to his very core.

He very nearly kissed her. Not on her forehead, or the back of her hand, but right on her sweetly curved lips. At the time, he was relieved that he successfully restrained himself.

Now, he almost wishes he hadn't.

Of course, that would have been out of the question. Utterly unthinkable. But as he sits beside Marie in the cart, her small body leaning into him for warmth, he finds himself thinking about all sorts of improper things. Things which have never before even crossed his mind. Like what she might taste like. Or whether her slender neck and shoulders are as soft as they look. Or how far those adorable freckles extend underneath her dress.

His face burns in shame, but he can't help it. He has never felt this way in his life.

"Quasi, are you feeling all right?" asks Gabriel, startling him. "Your cheeks are all red."

He clears his throat. "Couldn't be better," he says weakly.

The rest of the day, in accordance with Martinmas tradition, is devoted to feasting and games. In the homely warmth of the barn, the Lefévres and their extended family while away the hours by playing cards and backgammon, joking, laughing, and eating everything in sight. At one point, Gervais Fournier — village shoemaker and cousin to Joséphine — arrives with two bottles from his store of harvest wine. After hearing from Arnaud earlier that week that Saint Martin's Day was also Quasimodo's birthday, he was determined to bring him a gift. Deeply touched, Quasimodo is unable to refuse.

After a late supper, which consists of a succulent roast goose prepared by Marie, everyone retires to their beds, too drowsy from good food to keep their eyes open. As Quasimodo bids his family good night and goes back to his loft above the barn, he can't help feeling a little overwhelmed. He's simply not used to this much happiness.

For a long while, he stands in front of his completed model of the farm. Well, _almost_ complete. He still hasn't carved a miniature version of himself yet. He takes up his chisel and a block of wood, staring at them in quiet contemplation by the light of an oil lantern. Perhaps he has waited long enough.

He hears a sudden creak as the barn door opens and closes, and his heart gives a flutter at the sound of a low voice. "Quasi?"

Swallowing hard, he sets down the wood and chisel. "Yes, Mariette?" he says evenly.

"May I come up?"

_Lord, please give me strength._ "Of course."

"Don't worry, I won't ask you to take out any splinters," he hears her say as she climbs the ladder to his loft. "I had the sense to put on shoes this time."

Quasimodo chuckles. Before long, Marie's auburn head appears, followed by the rest of her diminutive form. "Don't laugh," she scolds playfully. "That was a very grievous injury."

"Oh, I know," he replies very seriously as he takes her hand and pulls her to her feet. "And you bore it with the stoicism of a Greek sage."

Marie laughs, and his heart gives another leap in his chest. He can't help but notice that she hasn't released his hand.

"Please, have a seat," he says, gesturing to one of the many bales of hay which litter his loft. "Would you like some wine?"

"Ummm... All right, that sounds nice."

As she sits down, Quasimodo busies himself with opening one of the bottles from Gervais and filling two goblets. He clears his throat. "I'm sorry I don't have proper chairs," he says, mostly because he feels he should probably say something. "I'm afraid I don't have much experience with entertaining guests."

"Oh, that's all right. I like it up here. It's cozy."

He smiles slightly to himself. Turning back toward her, he hands her a goblet and sits beside her. For a while, they sip the wine in a companionable silence, and he finds himself thinking that he could easily stay like this forever. It doesn't occur to him to ask why she is there. He's just glad that she is.

It's not until he refills their goblets that she speaks again. "I brought you something."

He looks up at her in surprise. "You did?"

The girl fishes around in the numerous pockets of her dress. "At least, I think I did. I know it's here somewhere. Here it is." She pulls out a small object, but doesn't show it to him. "I didn't want to give it to you in front of everyone else," she says, her cheeks slightly pink — though whether it is from embarrassment or the wine, he can't tell. "I've been working on it for months, but it's not very good."

Curious, Quasimodo sets down his cup. "What is it?"

She bites her lip. "Promise you won't laugh?"

"Oh, Mariette," he says fondly. "Of course I won't."

With a melodramatic sigh, she holds the object out to him. His eyes widen as he takes it from her, turning it over in his hands. It's a little wooden replica of himself. It is very simple, but faithful and accurate in its representation. The artist made no attempt to ignore the subject's physical deformities, and yet it was clearly carved by someone with a loving eye. The radiant smile on its painted face is enough to make his throat constrict.

"It's wonderful," he says tightly.

Marie makes a little noise of dissatisfaction. "You'd say that even if it was terrible," she says, not unkindly. "Anyway," she continues, standing abruptly and taking the figurine from his hands, "I was getting tired of waiting for you to make one, so I decided to do it for you." She places it with a flourish on the table among the rest of his carvings. "There. I think that's a good place for it, don't you?"

Quasimodo stands up to get a closer look, and suddenly finds himself unable to form the words necessary to give an answer.

Marie has placed the figure of himself right beside the figure of hers.

She gives a nervous smile. "Kind of looks like it belongs there, doesn't it?" she asks a little shakily.

Before his mind even has a chance to catch up with the rest of him, he steps forward and takes her hands in his. For a moment, he doesn't trust himself to speak. "I..." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I think you may be right," he murmurs huskily, his throat burning.

His heart begins to pound in his ribcage as Marie takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. At first he is disappointed when she gently pulls her hands from his grasp, but his pulse soars once again as she reaches up and clasps her arms behind his neck. Driven by pure instinct, his own hands find their way around her waist, pulling her even closer. As she gazes up at him through her thick eyelashes, he feels something stirring within him, something frightening and wonderful and impossible to ignore.

Breathing shallowly, he leans in and tilts his head toward hers. He can feel her warm breath on his face. For an instant, her nose brushes against his, and his eyelids drift shut in rapturous anticipation.

"Marie! Are you up there?"

At the sound of Arnaud's voice, they fly apart with a shared gasp, their faces glowing. With a valiant effort, Marie attemps to compose herself before replying. "Yes, Uncle," she says very calmly. "I had a birthday present that I forgot to give to Quasi."

"Oh." There is a short silence. "Well, then, give it to him and get back to bed." His voice has a slight edge to it that leaves no room for argument.

"Yes, Uncle," she calls again.

Still reeling from Arnaud's sudden interruption, Quasimodo receives another shock as Marie leans into him again, trailing a hand gently down the side of his face. "Happy Birthday," she murmurs, placing a kiss firmly on his lips.

When he is finally in command of his faculties, she is gone.

He lets out an explosive breath and shakes his head.

_Looks like I won't be sleeping tonight,_ he thinks with a dazed smile.

* * *

**Deeheehee! That was fun. I enjoyed writing that far more than I probably should have. I hope you liked it. The song I picked for the quote at the beginning is a favorite of mine; actually, you could almost call it the anthem for my story. There's a beautiful cover version by Adele that I particularly love. I'd be happy to email it to you, if you like.**

**So the reason this chapter took forever, and the reason that I've been so terribly busy, is that I'm engaged! For realsies! I had no idea so much planning was involved just to get married. If we had our way, we'd just hunt down a Justice of the Peace. Gotta please the relatives, I suppose. Anyway, hopefully I can balance writing and planning without neglecting one or the other. Do be sure to leave a review, if you'd be so kind!**

**R.R.**

*** "The Sound Does Not Make the Song"**


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